we'll watch these molehills grow to mountains
by platehate
Summary: The Wakamatsu wedding is simple but elegant, and lives up to all expectations raised prior to the actual event, as the newspapers and internet forums duly note. Similarly true to form, Seo nearly blinds someone with the bouquet toss. — [seowaka, fake marriage AU]
1. Chapter 1

**title:** we'll watch these molehills grow to mountains  
**pairing(s):** seowaka main. side horikashi, mikochiyo, ryoukari.  
**summary:** The Wakamatsu wedding is simple but elegant, and lives up to all expectations raised, as the newspapers and internet forums duly note. Similarly true to form, Seo nearly blinds someone with the bouquet toss.

**a/n:** i should really go to jail for abusing the semi-colon lol (re: cross-posting: this is already up on AO3 in full, weekly updates on this site)

**disclaimer:** i do not own GSNK. this fan work is transformative and was created solely for non-profit entertainment purposes. thank you.

* * *

Wakamatsu Hirotaka has lately had reason to be philosophising about the nature of his relationships, and their purpose; their overall place in the scheme of his life thus far.

Thinking on the course of past relationships and pseudo-relationships, though, inevitably leads him off on tangents pertaining to Seo—after all, she is the one responsible for introducing him to the concept of dubiously romantic attention and the ills of miscommunication. First times do tend to stick in the memory.

Time and distance have served to neutralise the devastating effect she had on his psyche, with the gradually diminishing encounters fading into sepia-toned school yearbooks, the same way he fades into fitful sleep after the insomnia passes. Seo is supposed to be a demon of the past. The way they've lived their now distinctly separate lives has always been the same, he supposes – touching but not intersecting; proximity without intimacy. He doesn't quite agree with Dante on the merits of this state.

He never would have thought he'd be initiating contact with her, but here he is, doing just that. And all because he panicked when his parents called him into the study and tentatively broached the subject of marriage. His brain had kind of shut down along with his temporary faculties of speech—though he remained alert enough to catch the oft-repeated phrases of "getting older" and "about time to settle down" and "blind date"; enough to know roughly what they were suggesting—and they caught the glazed look in his eyes just as they were trailing off "…even your younger brother's in a steady relationship…"

The temptation to say no and run screaming from the room in feigned madness is great (he's seen it work in shoujo manga where characters want to escape high-tension family confrontations), but he's never been anything but a filial son, starched up into proper piety and softened with gentle smiles. So he goes, anyway; goes on these blind dates with genteel, well-groomed girls who are supposed to be his type, every single one of them capable of passing for the epitome of coddled, beautiful only children. And he smiles back when they smile at him, offers his arm to them when they stroll along pavements, walks closer to the road, ignores the total apathy that he feels when he's next to them.

Wakamatsu's honestly tried to cultivate attachment, if not affection, but when faced with them all he can think of is how farcical the whole thing is. It's strange and puzzling, to say the least, that he has no interest in these women. No primary attraction based on looks. Not even any secondary attraction based on emotional connection, since he can't even muster _that_ up. Okay, so maybe he's missing something in the big picture, but even so he still latches onto the small details. The parade of arranged dates has near-identical presences, but he can tell that there's one girl he's been sent out with more often than the others by the increasingly familiar sight of her manicure.

Actually, in his head he can tell who they are by manicure, and he slips the labels on over their faces like how he once labelled his screen tones when he couldn't remember their corresponding number tags. There's one who wears only pastel shades, one who favours candy swirls, another diamanté flowers, while the particular set his eyes often meet are invariably carmine red (they hurt his eyes, he wishes they were something more like olive green and polka-dotted, or translucent amber framed with silver shine; maybe even unpainted).

"How about her?" his well-meaning folks ask.

Wakamatsu thinks of her banal aura, all insipidly soft pink and bubbly sunshine backgrounds, and automatically shakes his head. Which is a giant misstep; it turns out, when he registers the magnitude of the frowns on their faces. It's a situation dangerous enough for his instincts to take over, and Hirotaka's instincts involve saying the wrong things, or things based on shoujo manga, most often both: this is no exception.

"Th-there's already—uh, someone else I had in mind," he trips out. "This is, well, I mean—marriage. And I-I'd like to pick my partner…myself."

He stares at the specks of dust swirling in the mid-morning light, at the heavy drapery, at a possible future of perfectly coiffed hair. It's simply awful.

"All right," his parents say, and he snaps his eyes up to meet theirs, vague unease coiling in his gut.

"Bring her to lunch next Saturday."

* * *

Wakamatsu has only one week to conjure this fiancée out of thin air, and life's not helping. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and therefore Friday evening finds him sliding into a diner booth opposite the one woman he once told himself he'd never date. She looks up expectantly when he sits down, and he takes a fortifying breath.

"Seo-senpai. Thanks for agreeing to meet on such short notice."

And he feels horrible about it inside, but they both know that he knows that the only reason she agreed to meet him and hear him out was her desire to see his face in the flesh and hear his voice in person; just once more after so many years. Which makes this downright manipulative of him, but as already mentioned above, he is desperate—and she knows that. Clearly.

He proceeds to blurt out the chain of events that led up to this in excruciating detail, much too preoccupied with his tale of woe to notice the subtle signs of unearthly glee on her face. He isn't really sure he wants to know what exactly she finds so amusing, when he eventually does pick up on it (she's never been one for subtlety)—dealing with unwitting sadists is an unwelcome part of life. But he pushes it aside and continues rambling on and on and on about the blind dates and the false expectations and how there's no way out of it now, and when it's over at long last he's left panting despairingly at the sight of her supremely unconcerned face.

"So?" she says, pushing a glass of water across the table at him (how someone can be both so callous and so considerate at the same time, he'll never comprehend).

"You just here to rant, or what?" She leans forward, elbows on table.

"Are you actually suggesting that I go along with this nonsense of yours – and it's totally your own fault, anyway. I'm already about _this_ close to breaking out in hysterical laughter, you know, _but_ the last time I did that I got kicked out of a restaurant, so I'm not going to."

Wakamatsu stares fixedly at the varnished fake wood grain of the table top, biting his lip hesitantly. _Try again. Come on. There's no one else._

He clears his throat.

"Seo-senpai,"he speaks lowly, seriously, leaning forward as well to match her posture, to close the distance between their faces. "I'll admit that you're not the woman I want, but (and here he grimaces) right now, you're the woman I _need_." He blinks away the rising tears of frustration.

"I've tried so hard, to feel the smallest bit of anything for all those other girls, and it doesn't work, doesn't feel right at all. And I—I don't know, but I knew you once, and—maybe we can make something happen? You know? Just…please. Please."

He waits.

That look in her eyes, it might just be empathy, though empathy won't be of any help in this case. He sees pity, too, and what cements into a grim sort of resolve. "Lucky for you I'm not in any serious relationships right now," she mutters—and his face just lights up at that line, so radiant it threatens to shed light on all the dark ugly undersides of this arrangement. There's going to be a lot of things to adjust to, something that really only first hits home when Seo's voice turns commanding.

"Now, if we're going to make this work, call me Yuzuki." There's an awkward pause, before she tacks on the next words, "…and tell me your first name."

"Hirotaka," he rushes out, as if he's afraid that she'll suddenly change her mind and back out on the scheme. "It's—"

"Hirotaka," she completes his sentence, voice uncharacteristically quiet as she echoes him. If he hadn't known her better he'd have said that Seo—no, _Yuzuki_ —sounded almost reverent.

It's a Very Big Thing, as everyone knows, to be addressing each other on first name basis, sans honourifics. Even though the way this woman wraps her tongue around the syllables of his first name makes it seem so easy his refuses to cooperate in the same way, tripping over the unfamiliar word and refusing to right itself and be presented to the world. As Wakamatsu tries again and again to get her name out of his mouth while flushing progressively darker shades of scarlet, he sneaks a desperate glance at her, still sitting opposite him with a rather woodenly bemused cast to her features. The usual Seo would have been laughing uproariously by now, but he supposes that even people like her can improve over the years.

"C'mon, Waka. I mean. Hirotaka. Uh. This isn't that hard, you know?"

His jaw drops slightly further, helplessly.

"What, need some help? Repeat after me, you hopeless little shit," she grins, and leans forward coaxingly. "Yu-zu-ki. Say it like that."

He swallows at the daunting task ahead, but he knows that this is just the smallest of his worries. Just three syllables, he tells himself. Just three. He can do this, even with her smiling at him like she thinks she knows why he can't say her name, like he really holds a candle for her.

Hirotaka probably would have had a problem with that, but the rush of gratitude that swells his lungs and quickens his heartbeat helps him along: the way he says her first name for the first time ends up being so couched in warmth and tenderness that it almost sounds like he really loves her.

And that's good enough for today, at least.

* * *

There are little snags to the present-Yuzuki-as-fake-fiancée plan though, potential kinks they have to iron out together. They start by practising sounding intimate in the car as he drives her home, and it's such a horrible failure that they double over laughing whenever they can afford to take their eyes off the road.

Hirotaka makes a mental list as they glide on through the night, heading to the apartment complex where she lives. Hair, nails, speech, smile; and the way he looks at her as well, that's important too. He tells her as much, and together they mull it over, engine idling in the parking lot.

"I can do your hair, I guess. I can nick some of my sister's hair styling products or something. I'll just have to come over a little earlier to get it done, okay?"

"Ah, sure. Are we letting my hair down, though? Putting it half up? Braiding it? No buns, please. I really can't stand those."

He takes his hand off of the steering wheel at last, even though they've been stationary for quite some time, and runs it tentatively through her hair. Yuzuki cringes lightly, shrinking from his impulsive, deliberate touch. Skin grazes skin, wounds that smart in places unseen.

"_You're not the woman I want"_ – pretty difficult to reconcile words like that with the inherent tenderness of a gesture like this. Perhaps he might have meant to be reassuring, but it comes off as a jarring incongruity between words (cool, detached tone and all) and actions (distractingly, and confusingly enough, they reek of fondness) that throws both of them off.

Hirotaka blinks, and focuses on the issue at hand—like her hair, which is literally in his hand, but you know what I mean.

"Um, I was thinking of putting it half up, or in a side braid, you know? But that'll probably depend on what you decide to wear."

"Oh, yeah," she nods distractedly, "but where is this gonna be held, again?"

"Yes, my parent's house. Um, it's the swanky almost-mansion type, so nothing too casual. But I don't want you to look like all the rest of them, anyway, so maybe you should just wear what you normally do..?"

Yuzuki shrugs noncommittally, though her words are anything but. "I have this long Greek dress looking thing left over from being some cousin's bridesmaid," she says. "Will that do?"

She slants him a sidelong look. "Maybe you should just come upstairs with me and have a look. Since we are, you know, pretending to be engaged until the weekend's over."

So he does, even though he almost doesn't dare to step over the threshold. Apparently this is the apartment her older brother occupied while at university, and the relatively sparse furniture is testament to that; though it really shouldn't be that way, since it must have been years and years. The whole pared down aesthetic of the place strikes him as more than a little off; it rather feels like this space is merely inhabited, but not truly lived in.

What sort of young woman is she to not have her house done up in any way? At this point Hirotaka isn't very accustomed to making deductions from anything but manicures, and his senpai's nails aren't manicured, so he's kind of at a loss.

"You can go ahead first and have a look at my wardrobe," Seo nods in the direction of her bedroom. "You know, I gotta go make us tea, I guess." And then off she pads into what is presumably the kitchen, leaving him to send pleading looks after her retreating back before awkwardly shuffling further into the flat.

Her futon is shoved against the wall, rolled into a haphazard pile from which the still-rumpled covers peek, and he has to pull very hard before his eyes will be dragged away from the creases and dips her body has made in the mattress. It'd never do for her to walk in and catch him staring at her futon, who knows what she might say? Hirotaka wonders if he would he like to stay the night.

Truly, what would his response be if she offered?

He leaves when it's gotten so late that entire neighbourhoods fall quiet and the sound of their twin footsteps on the bare floor (of course there are no carpets) echoes loud in his ears. As he slips on his shoes at the entrance, hand on the wall for some balance, Yuzuki pads over on bare feet, long since stripped of those thin black stockings. He stares at the whiteness of her toes, the natural pinkish colour and simple arch of her nails, the ones he'll take in hand and carefully lacquer tomorrow—and all of a sudden the thought of such intimacy with an acquaintance as erstwhile as to almost be a stranger makes him quail. _It's only just this once_, he tells himself, and pushing any queasiness away before she can pick up on the scent of it (she always had been good at that).

He straightens up to make a last set of farewells, oddly stiff and formal now that he's trying to ward off thoughts about the texture of her skin, her hair, his picking that stray eyelash off her cheek. And that's when she leans up and plants a kiss on his face, deliberately catching the corner of his mouth under her lips.

When he freezes up, she smirks, reaches over and slyly pokes a finger into his chest. "What's the matter now, _Hirotaka_?"

For the first time in forever, he feels himself flush to the very tips of his ears.

* * *

Under the same night sky, one stiletto-clad foot is planted boldly on plush red velvet, then another. Multi-talented artiste Yuu (Kashima Yuu, really, but stage name: just Yuu)—actress, model, seiyū and household name—gracefully unfolds her lithe form from the vehicle in which she was conveyed to the premiere of the latest movie she'd starred in. It's a truly awe-inspiring affair, though many would say, not as awe-inspiring as her person on this night.

Shown off in beautifully stark contrast to the deep red of the carpet are the creamy length of her legs, sinfully long and drawing the eye up irresistibly towards her equally slender neck; the black silk that wraps her modestly up to the chin generously slit at the skirt to reveal several inches more thigh than ought to be allowed.

She's a real vision. And everyone knows it.

The clicks of a hundred cameras go off in rapid succession, the rapid shuttering like a muted roar, appreciative and hungry and shooting off beams of light that bounce mercilessly off the enamel of teeth, say, or the retina of an eye. Never one to be overwhelmed, Kashima smiles, poses, blows kisses galore.

As usual, both the event and after parties see her surrounded by an admiring gaggle of (okay, fine, mostly) women, and then of course she busies herself with making sure that all tonight's princesses are liberally showered with an equal share of overdone compliments and flattery. Perhaps she'll be able to set a new record for mass swooning, and who can predict what else? But little does she know, as the merry little group's laughs trail off into the glittering night, that something sinister is brewing under the calm surface of their lives.

Basically: a "dating scandal" erupts.

For what must be the first time in her dalliance-saturated life, Kashima Yuu finds that she has generated one too many reports about her unholy appeal towards the fairer sex, leading to rampant online speculation about her sexuality and disregard of the gender binary. She may have thought herself immune to criticism about her conduct before, but she cannot deny that she is indeed shaken by the sheer volume, or the vehemence, of what other people have to say about her. And of course it isn't just about people talking, it's about the tone they're using, breathing life into assumptions and insinuations that could perhaps have lain dormant for years past and future, if not for this one untimely window of opportunity through which the venomous tendrils of anonymous netizen's voices have snaked.

Perhaps it would've been alright if she were in America or Europe, where 'coming out' seems to be some new in thing for celebrities; where flirting with countless ladies could be s solid boost rather than a stain on her reputation; but here she is in Japan, _deeply conservative _Japan, where despite what everyone might spout about cultural acceptance and freedom to be oneself, there is absolutely no way her showbiz career will survive the storm such rumours surrounding her will whip up.

* * *

The streets are empty save for a smattering of silhouettes, spots of darker grey on grey.

Nozaki Umetarou walks home from convenience store slowly, though with his long legs it isn't hard for him to cover as much ground as, say, Sakura if she were brisk walking. On this particular evening his thoughts are dwelling on something other than his manga – well, at least not directly related to his current series – for once.

A woman, to be exact. One he'd met under the most contrived circumstances possible in order, he guesses, for life to heap upon him the massive irony of being a shoujo manga author and having what was meant to be fantasy become reality. Seriously, the chances of a meet-cute like this are truly one in a million.

But maybe that's just him, they're more like run of the mill for his protagonists…

As a man writing under a female pseudonym, under the guise of a sweet young thing, fan meetings and signing events have always been an infinitely terrifying prospect (though sometimes he has to ask himself why he even bothers anymore, since it's likely that no one would believe him anyway).

Umetarou's been fortunate, really, that with every passing event that Yumeno Sakiko once again chooses not to show her face at, the positive hype surrounding her has only multiplied dramatically. _Super reserved gentle flower declines to bask in spotlight! _Etc., are the sort of things the newspapers seem to enjoy churning out, and they're joined happily by the editors of manga magazines in perpetuating the erroneously wrong image they have of their supposed author.

Yamato Nadeshiko? Him? Umetarou supposes he _is_ a tad flattered, but _no_.

Anyway, time to return to the subject at hand.

He had certainly not anticipated that someone else would be hiding out in the back, furrowing their brows over trying to formulate an escape plan from this dratted mass manga signing event. He'd thought himself rather alone in the cordoned-off area behind the staff quarters the mall bookstore boasted, swathed in dusty drapes from some long-forgotten event and too busy ruminating to realise he'd in fact been spotted slipping away by his trustworthy editor.

Having masqueraded for the bigger part of his life as a delicate beauty of good background, the very epitome of understanding girl's hearts, what sort of author would he be _now_, to reveal his true gender and smash the fans' hearts to smithereens? It would be the worst sort of treachery, nothing would be more callous. Or perhaps they'd take it as a deliberately orchestrated prank?

Inching backwards down the darkened corridor towards the emergency exit, Umetarou nearly jumps out of his skin when his back collides with someone else's, thoughts careening off into the wildest of feasibly trite outcomes.

And then there's that moment when he doesn't need to try and place himself in a manga hero's shoes, because he's experiencing first-hand the rush of heady adrenaline and anticipation and fear as he turns to make eye contact with whatever's behind him, mouth gaping like a goldfish.

When one gets caught trying to escape by someone else trying to escape, there's only one way things can go: making a break for it together. The glorious rush towards the door at the end of the tunnel, the dawning appreciation of soon-to-be-free-ness, the emphatic turning of the handle – tragically cut short by the dreadful buzz of a received text message.

Hands shaking, he reaches for his phone to open the mail.

From: Ken-san Subject: Don't even _**think**_ about it

Make that two received text messages, actually. So, well. That's one plan put to rest.

Which is how the two, not a second more than necessary wasted on introductions, find themselves spending the last fifteen minutes before the event opens hastily instructing each other on how to execute their respective signatures flawlessly, in the pantry of all places.

Umetarou was secretly more than a little pained that Ken-san had given them a withering sideways glance when they hastily shoved through the ranks of chairs and took their (exchanged) seats amongst their infinitely bemused fellow writers and editorial staff, but he hadn't outright vetoed the idea.

"Whatever floats your boat, you two," he'd muttered. "Just don't mess up, okay?"

"Have no fear of that, Ken-san," Umetarou had immediately spoken up. "While you were searching for us just now, Yaguchi-sensei and I were most studiously practicing how to execute each other's autographs in the pa—"

"Pantry, yes," Ken-san finished for him, massaging his temples wearily. "If you would be so kind as to spare me the details?"

"Ah, and stop calling Yumeno-sensei Yaguchi-sensei, _Yaguchi-sensei_."

The rosy glow of pleasant reminiscing segues into the warm crocus yellow of the living room light that shines dimly through the veil the curtains make, as he looks up at his apartment from the street below.

That's right, he recalls, starting up the steps; Mayu's there today.

* * *

Next morning Hirotaka stops by Yuzuki's place early, like he'd promised, bearing said hair products and nail polish and a pack of bobby pins, since he just knows that she won't have any around. He hustles her out of bed and settles her into a comfortable kitchen chair for the next few hours while he experiments with her hair and deftly paints her nails, buffs and polishes them to perfection. All the time she seems to be half asleep, but in reality, she's much too awake for his liking.

"The things I do for you," he sighs in mock exaggeration, blowing on her nails to hasten the drying of the shiny polish.

And the perfectly timed retort, only the slightest bit indignant—

"You're fucking kidding me, Waka, you're doing this for yourself."

* * *

The introductions out of the way, they go in to lunch. He picks the seat on Yuzuki's left, which puts him a little further away from the rest, though the view of his parents whispering to each other incessantly is unfortunately unblocked.

"Yes," they're murmuring into their palms, "green and gold will do very nicely."

Green and gold will do very nicely for _what? _When he realises that he's spoken aloud, they turn and give an indulgent smile, the sort of expression that parents always get when they think they're withholding good news from their ignorant offspring. "Oh, do try and guess," they coo just a tad patronisingly in the face of the blank stares they receive.

"My ring is green and gold," his sister says.

"Rose beetles," declares his brother.

Then even Yuzuki opens her mouth to respond. "Kiwi fruits," is her very concise input to the conversation.

Not that he's one to talk, because Hirotaka is speechless. His parents are pleased with them though, and they share a conspiratorial glance, before casually dropping the biggest bombshell they possibly could.

"The invitations, of course, what else?" they say, and he sits there stupidly for a moment before it sinks in.

They continue blithely, smiling. "The wedding will be in six months."

"_Fuck,_" Seo and Wakamatsu spit in unison.

Everyone very nicely pretends that they've just coughed.

The first to recover is Yuzuki, and she's quick to adopt a facial expression of pleased but extremely startled surprise that evidently goes a long way towards mollifying his parents, who were just about to laser them to slivers with their eyes. "Six months," she murmurs thoughtfully into one fist, scrunching up her brows as if she's really thinking it through. And she might have been, but just then he catches, from the corner of his eyes, the hand on her lap unfurling to display her open palm.

Dear, dear Yuzuki: her voice doesn't betray any expectation, but he thinks he would have to be blind not to see that whatever she says next will weigh on his decision—whether to put his hand in hers, or not. It's almost chilling to imagine what would happen if he stayed frozen like this, if he didn't make a move to take her hand. Hirotaka chooses to; leans forward and laces his fingers tightly through hers; flicks his troubled blue eyes over to meet clear amber ones straight on.

The corners of Yuzuki's lips turn up in the barest smile, and she draws their interlocked palms up to prop under her chin as she turns back to the others. "Six months," she begins again, "I suppose that's enough time."

It works well enough, and they are pardoned for the slip, though the ensuing discussion on wedding plans and living arrangements and all the different ways they could have wedding clothes done washes right over his head. On the way back to her apartment, he can barely remember a word of what was said.

All he can think of, right now, is that he's really going to marry her. That _she's_ going to marry _him_.

Why, forget the ceremony, his taking her hand just now under those very circumstances was as good as plighting his troth to her on the spot.

This time, he's the one who leans down and kisses her cheek. It is, unfortunately, the kind of kiss that is meant to function as an apology of sorts—quick, perfunctory, and reeking of apologetic hesitancy as to whether the kisser should linger or leave. Hirotaka chooses the latter, as it is, because the urge to find some space and just let go of his composure for a little while is overwhelming; and so he bolts without really thinking any more, without thinking about what it might look like to her, with only an unspoken resolution hastily formed, that he should call her later to make up for it somehow.

* * *

He dials her number from his call log history, and dimly notes that she picks up within the first three rings as he swallows the lump building in his throat.

"Hey," he rasps into the receiver, forcing himself to speak without preamble. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you very much."

Yuzuki actually huffs into the phone, and he jumps a little at the crackle it makes over the line. "Is that all you're going to say?" she demands, sounding indignant and more than a little injured—in short, a tone he never thought he'd hear from her – enough to make his conscience prickle. If he were to think about it impartially, he would see that what Yuzuki has done for him today is probably the most selfless deed she's ever ventured to undertake in the entirety of her life; so uncharacteristic and so massive a sacrifice it is. What can he ever hope to offer her in return for this? The year will pass and they will be (perhaps not so) irrevocably wed, and he won't be able to give her back her time, or her peace of mind, or his heart, because that's completely out of the question. It's the sort of debt that will always be notoriously difficult to repay; he supposes he'll be thinking about it (about her) every waking moment for the rest of his life.

And all these thoughts of short-changing her, though he doesn't consider the possibility, rather crowd out the thought that he might be short-changing himself too. Yet how could he, really, when the enormity of unfairness is obviously so much heavier on her shoulders than his? His skewed perspective tells him that he's gotten out of an entirely arranged marriage to a stranger and trapped his senpai in one instead, while reality can only revel in the sheer irony of him jumping to such a conclusion.

Also: what's that about Seo-senpai not being able to read the atmosphere? To him, at least, it's pretty obvious that she can, though she still goes ahead and says what she wants to anyway.

"W-well, I—don't really know what else to say," he edges out. "Sorry."

"Oh, _are_ you?"

"Uh—I-I, um, anyway! We-we're getting married. To each other."

"So it would seem."

"Yeah, s-so, can…can we go out, um, together?" Hirotaka can feel his face getting redder with every attempt to put his proposition into words, the irony of the situation hitting his composure full force. "Like, as a proper c-couple, you know. On a—on a date."

"Right," she replies, drawing out the word as much as she can, making him hold his breath in tandem with her sceptical drawl. "And what you aren't telling me is…?"

He exhales noisily, and finds himself somewhat stamping his feet on the spot like a petulant child, only he's an exasperated man in his late twenties with trouble articulating his exact emotions. This woman is every bit as irritating as she was over a decade ago, just in a different way compared to then – it used to be that she saw only what she wanted to see, but now she sees exactly what he doesn't want her to see.

"Is what I'll tell you when you meet me this Saturday at 11am, alright? I'll pick you up from outside your house."

His Yuzuki (oh my god_, his_ Yuzuki) grumbles and demurs, but finally agrees. Hirotaka supposes he can understand the need she feels to wrangle and not just give in to the seeming normality of this new arrangement they'll have to circumnavigate, and any new feelings that might arise.

Everything's going to snowball into a pure white wedding, they know that, and yet it's still rather unpleasant to discover that there's nothing to be done but help it along.

* * *

"My grandparents have offered to take care of the wedding bands, actually," Hirotaka says nervously, rolling up his sleeves as they exit the mall carpark. Yuzuki strides along briskly at his side, her heels tapping rhythmically. He follows them discreetly as they travel over dimly stained concrete and the dull greyish white of rarely-swept lift lobbies to smooth, painstakingly polished tiles, subtly inset with glitter; automatically slowing his long strides to match her shorter ones. It's a strange reversal of roles.

He brushes at imaginary specks of dust on her sleeve, the awkward prelude to trying to link arms with her, where he ends up being the one with a hand slipped into the crook of her elbow. She looks up at him, mildly taken aback, and he struggles with the urge to tell her that not all physical intimacy between them has to be _justified_ or _explained_ or something—even if that is actually the case right now, because his wanting to touch her is driven by his wanting to tell her something.

With a resigned sigh, he grasps her forearm and lightly guides it around to rest intertwined with his. Yuzuki glances down, then fully up at him, and he takes the opportunity to tell her then, "We're here today to get our engagement rings".

She curls her fingers (and her lower lip), the tips of her nails digging little crescent moons into the creases of his shirt, like little needles stabbing into the pincushion of his bicep. "I see," she says, and he slows his step, turns to face her fully—but words fail him, and so he simply closes his mouth and continues walking, the pain in his arm anchoring him to the reality of it all.

When he tries just for old times' sake, he finds that he _can_ in fact throw her off with just a twist.

Suddenly disconnected from each other, they remain in awkward limbo for a few strides until he moves to fold his hand over hers, gently half-cupping it in the space between them. Before he realises it he's distractedly brushing fingertips over the hollow of her wrist and smiling when her pulse flutters against his.

_Unbelievable_.

* * *

"I'm glad that's done," Yuzuki says, putting her hands behind her head and leaning back on them as she walks. Hirotaka glances down at the delicately embossed paper of the small carrier and lets the corners of his mouth turn up a little; just as she turns her head to glance at him. He's only ever seen her get all rosy cheeked when in the middle of enthusing about her beloved B-grade sci-fi flicks, but he could swear that right then, while sneaking looks at his sheepish smile, she starts to glow a little. It's a tiny, hidden sort of satisfaction.

_Hirotaka's satisfied, too, even if he doesn't say so either. The way Yuzuki had latched eyes on one ring and turned to him decisively (after ignoring most of the information the immaculately professional sales assistant had offered them on the subject of purchasing engagement jewellery and more) was rather moving, though he hasn't the foggiest idea why. "It's the colour of your eyes, huh," he thought he'd heard her mumble, "good enough to remember you by."_

"Mmm," he nods, lightly grabbing onto the fabric of her shirt to guide her through the growing throng of shoppers. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want to get something for the drive back?"

She eyeballs him impressively, somehow managing to be simultaneously straight faced and quaking with silent laughter. "Someone's being very generous today."

He clicks his tongue and throws his head back in mild exasperation, purposefully avoiding her eyes and choosing to look at the curve of her lips instead, the hint of a dimple on her cheeks. "I'm taking that as a yes, senpai."

And she laughs out loud at that, putting a little bit of spring in her step as they locate the nearest café. "This is the first time you're paying for our food, huh," she remarks, sounding all too pleased with herself, and he doesn't have the heart to dampen her spirits after all the curveballs he's thrown her lately. In fact, Hirotaka decides to give in to temptation and try something romantic like make sustained eye contact while scanning the available selection of beverages, or guide her away from any glassware with a hand on the small of her back, when his eye catches on two dreadfully familiar flashes of red ribbon in striking vermillion hair.

(Just between you and me, though: his first coherent thought after the dread swoops in is: "She's still wearing _those _at her age?")

Surprisingly, his partner actually notes the subtle paling of his complexion—and for a moment he's glad, the swooping in his stomach held at bay for the while—until he realises that as a result of that they've somehow both been waved over to sit across from an unfortunately erstwhile friend. There's no way they can hope to pretend that they hadn't seen her, of course, so they grudgingly pick their way through the sea of low tables and rattan chairs to Sakura's side.

"Eh, Chiyo-chan," Yuzuki mutters, "hello. What're you doing here? You alone?"

"Oh, you remember Nozaki-kun and Mikorin, yes? I was just waiting for them; we haven't had a catch-up session in ages…though Nozaki just messaged us to say he can't make it anymore. And you two are here together because?" She asks, being honestly curious, because she'd never in a million years thought that they'd be anything more than oblivious senpai and harassed kouhai.

Hirotaka and Yuzuki fidget on the spot, chew on their drink straws and shoot each other looks that scream "_You_ tell her" – which leaves Sakura feeling more puzzled than ever, because when did Yuzuki and Wakamatsu, of all people, ever seem like they could come across as so in sync? And Sakura has always been tactful and adept at reading the situation, but right now she really cannot help ploughing ahead with the questions, regardless of whether she's about to uncover something she didn't know she didn't want to know. She sips at her brew to wet her increasingly dry throat and tries again.

"Er, I mean, I didn't know you guys were friends – were still in touch?" She watches as the two people facing her open their mouths hesitantly at the same time, then ducks into her teacup to avoid any eye contact.

Yuzuki starts first. "Well, this is kind of bad timing, Chiyo-chan—"

"—but we're engaged," Wakamatsu completes the sentence.

Sakura immediately spits out her tea.

"Well," he blanches, "this is awkward."

* * *

Sakura sits in the café, still trying to blot the tea stains off the hem of her skirt, but then Mikoshiba slides into the booth to beam across at her and all is forgotten for the moment while she haltingly relays the news of Seo and Wakamatsu's engagement.

It's a good thing he hasn't had the time to order anything yet, so as it is all he chokes on is air—but the similarity of his reaction to Sakura's is uncanny, if not a hundred times more exaggerated in terms of bugged-out eyes and slack-jawed flush.

And then, of course, Ryousuke would just happen to walk past and see the two of them, because life is full of the most wonderful coincidences. Sakura and Mikoshiba watch, spellbound, as Ryousuke strolls past the glass front with eyes that slowly swivel to lock onto theirs, then halts abruptly and retraces his steps before turning into the café and heading straight for their table.

It's like something right out of a movie, down to comically puzzled expressions and the impeccable timing. There's even vaguely tinny background music blaring from the café's sound system. Oh, lord.

No time for formalities, really, the man gets right to it.

"Chiyo-chan," Ryousuke greets her with perfunctory nod. "Have you already heard about Yuzuki getting married?"

"Ah, um, yeah. Just, in fact." She says perkily, though it comes out a tad too strained. This is a little too much even for a close shave, isn't it? The mere thought of what could have happened if any one of the people who'd been sitting in the booth across from her had arrived or left a minute later is enough to make her quail spectacularly. "I was a little surprised!"

There's a pause in which that titbit of information is digested, and then Ryousuke turns to Mikoshiba. "Are you the one she's getting hitched to?" he asks baldly, and then regrets ever letting the words leave his mouth once he sees the destructive bout of flustered (but entirely truthful) denial that follows.

"Ah—no, no, who would _want_ to? I-I mean—w-wait, no offence to your sister but, um, j-j-j-j-just, just a_bsolutely_ not!" There's a too-loaded pause then, which makes it all too clear that Mikoshiba has something else to add in his defence, something he's reluctantly considering tacking on. Sakura and Ryousuke both lean forward, eyes fixed on the spasmodically twitching pair in front of theirs.

"I-I'm married already, anyway," Mikoshiba mutters, not disappointing them at all when it finally comes to the big reveal. "Or was, b-but that's not important at all, is it?"

The flush staining his cheeks feels like it'll never vanish even under vigorous scrubbing—ah, and anyway wouldn't vigorous scrubbing just redden them more? He squirms under the careful scrutiny of his companions, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. It takes, or rather _has_ taken him, very long to realise that this is something he's never actually told his high school friends before.

Satisfied, Ryousuke bids them a quiet farewell and leaves, slipping back out into the thin morning light. Mikoshiba watches him go. Not that he's avoiding Sakura's eyes, really. But it's just that instead of the earnest stare and rapid-fire interrogation he was fully expecting from her, she's just smiling fondly at him in this silly, giddy way.

(No, the twang of his heartstrings is totally not imagined.)

"You didn't have to say that to get Ryousuke-kun off your case, you know," she says, eyes crinkling in time with her sunny smile as it spreads across her face. "But you really tried your best. It was cute, Mikorin."

Mikoshiba's throat immediately goes as dry as the fucking Sahara desert, because _Sakura_ thinks he was joking.

Sakura, who always understood him best back then—was it perhaps too unrealistic to hope that she'd still know him as well more than ten years later? Oh wait, that's rhetorical, he doesn't want that answered at all. The expression on her face now is something he cannot bring himself to look at, not with the ominous way his insides are flipping about, not with the slow freeze of his facial muscles.

Her small hand reaches out to ruffle his hair and he catches it in an extremely clumsy dodge, blinking a little at the sight of his hands, so large around hers. He sighs heavily, and her eyes flicker over to meet his. Sakura looks concerned, of all things, as he worries his bottom lip.

"You know, Sakura," he says, voice slow and soft, "I wasn't making that up."

Her lips twitch uncertainly. _Deep breath, _Mikoto tells himself_, deep breath._

"M-maybe it's more unbelievable than Seo getting married, but I-I was too, for a while. Not anymore, uh, we're divorced now. But it was p-pretty good while it lasted…and, um…I don't know, I guess I was too swept up in the whole thing to think about telling you. You guys. My high school friends in general? You were all so busy with your new jobs and everything anyway. Though Kashima knew, because she was best man, and after that I—ah, p-please don't cry or anything, you guys _do_ mean a lot to me—it was just. It got _bad_ after a while, and then. And then I couldn't even think of facing anyone. And there was kind of no point telling anyone. Wasn't there? S-so that's the truth of it."

Mikoshiba ends on a note plaintive, pleading, and infinitely insecure; and all Sakura can think to do at that moment is to grasp at her tea for a much-needed calming draught.

Unfortunately, the cup never makes it to her lips, foiled as she is by her nerves. Sakura decides that her skirt is beyond saving.

.

.

.

_cont._


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n:** *burps*

**disclaimer:** i do not own GSNK. this fan work is transformative and was created solely for non-profit entertainment purposes. thank you.

* * *

Meeting Ryousuke for lunch is a very different sort of suffering from the ordeal that was eating with the Wakamatsu family.

"I don't suppose I'm really qualified to say anything since my imouto is getting married before me, but…this is a little out of the blue, you know?" Her older brother frowns thoughtfully over the top of his water glass. How on earth is that crease in his forehead not yet permanent?

"I didn't even know you were seeing a guy so seriously," he grouses. "Ah, gosh. This is really uncool, you getting hitched first."

Yuzuki sighs wearily, having had more than her requisite fill of her brother's prominently displayed insecurities in the two decades or so they've lived in the same house. Suave, cool, and flippant he may be on the outside, but her nii-chan is an idiot through and through. Who else could go charging forth into the world so many times, over and over again, despite limping back as always with leaden step, mooning over some unreciprocated affection or trifling misunderstanding?

He is, above all things, _sensitive_, as she is not, and she realises that doesn't exactly make them the best combination – but they love and understand each other in their own way, because that's kind of part of the package when you're tied by blood. Perhaps she's the big picture sort of person, and he likes to sweat the small stuff, but what really matters is that they _know_ how to best cheer each other up when the other's feeling down, stuff like that.

Still, it's a little sad that all she can muster up in the face of his muttering about pulling the wool over his eyes is a half-smile and an overused jibe about setting him up on a blind date.

Eventually, of course, he pulls himself together and gets round to ferreting out information; there is so much he wants to know, and so little time. _So who is this guy? What's his name, why does he even have such a long name? Wakamatsu Hirotaka? Sounds like some zaibatsu heir or something – hey, whaddaya mean he really is? Huh? How did you two even meet? How long has it been since you've met? Is this future brother-in-law, perchance, someone your Ryousuke-nii-chan knows?_

Yuzuki smiles like a cipher. "We go way back, him and me," she says, or rather gloats, and Ryousuke quietens a little, slowly tilting his head to give her the side eye.

"Way back to high school?" he hesitantly puts out, and she immediately looks impressed, shooting him back with a _how did you know_ look. "Just a lucky guess," he mutters, swinging his head to casually glance out the window and maintain the appearance of nonchalance – only to be brought face to face with the very man he's currently having a flashback about.

The High School Boyfriend (real name: Nozaki Umetarou, alias: Yumeno Sakiko), as he's always been labelled in Ryousuke's head, is standing right outside on the pavement, conversing with a friend almost as tall as he is, one with a nice smile and hair that gleams with purple undertones in the afternoon sun, also sporting what is very obviously a shiny new engagement ring. But of course Ryousuke totally misses all that, fixated as his sight is on the tall, dark one.

It must be so painful, thinking back to frustrations keenly felt for a now fifteen year old love, because even feelings that once seemed evergreen will cease to grow and wilt if left untended for so long.

* * *

Following her brother's line of sight draws Yuzuki's attention to the pair standing just outside, and almost the whole restaurant notes how adorably her face lights up when she registers her fiancé's presence, and immediately grabs her phone to send him a barrage of spam mail that he steadfastly ignores for as long as he can, before finally turning his head in exasperation – only to freeze mid-sigh (and eye-roll) when he locks gazes with her, on opposite sides of the glass.

Hirotaka brings a hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes, squinting at her like she's a trick of the afternoon light. "Ah," he says, flushing belatedly at her excited waving, and clumsily raising a hand to return it. That, and the hurried scrambling for his mobile phone (she's sending her own device a particularly significant look) to tap out a reply, is what catches Nozaki's attention, who's stuck as ever in the cloud of his own manga-related thoughts.

"Oh?" the taller man asks, perking up suddenly – which is strangely incongruous, given the wilting intensity of the afternoon's heat. "Wakamatsu-kun, who are you waving at? _Are_ you waving at someone?"

Hirotaka hems and haws for a millisecond before shifting on his feet to fully face the restaurant's glass front: it's a move that has Nozaki following his lead and turning to look. "Oh," he raises curiously, "would she happen to be your…?" leaving the girlfriend/fiancée/whatever part unsaid in favour of subtly lifting his little finger. Hirotaka's blush is, fortunately or unfortunately, all the answer he needs, and the next thing he knows Nozaki is steering him through the entryway and into the seat next to Yuzuki's.

It's awkward.

It's also fairly cute, from Nozaki's point of view. Couples in general are always interesting to observe, but he rarely gets the chance to peer at them up close. The nearest he gets to lovebirds these days are those old school friend outings where a couple happens to have formed within the group or his occasional catch-ups with Mikoshiba and Sakura (though those two aren't together, per se), so he's more than happy to be in close proximity with an _engaged_ pair.

Wakamatsu stammers a greeting, quite unable to look his friend straight in the face as he formally introduces his fiancée and her older brother for the first – but perhaps on closer inspection, not so first – time. Still, Nozaki makes sure not to widen his eyes too much in recognition when he sees that yes, indeed, it is the very same Seo Yuzuki from Roman High School, fellow member of class A (or was it B?) along with Sakura-san, the one absolutely besotted with Wakamatsu-kun even though she probably never said so out loud; while her brother, he takes it, is just another of those very common faces, not blatantly forgettable yet not particularly worth remembering, because he feels vaguely familiar despite Nozaki having no recollection of their ever having been introduced.

Seo is similarly befuddled by the apparent antagonism in the air, because he catches her sending inquisitive looks at the crackling (and completely one-sided) tension between her nii-chan and Nozaki himself. Though she doesn't bother with that for long, choosing instead to turn to her betrothed (god, now that he thinks of it, that's such an old-fashioned word) and needle him with an endless ream of questions about his exact eye colour while forcing him to squint at her ring and into a pocket mirror in turns, pausing every now and again to shove teaspoons of cake into his mouth. Wakamatsu obligingly follows her lead, and tries not to stare too deeply into her eyes while they peer into the tiny square of mirror together.

And then there is Ryousuke, pretending to glower at some dirty spot on his coffee cup, all the while looking like he hopes the man half reflected in its surface will just turn to stone and crumble to dust in the stream of sunlight.

For once, Hirotaka is glad that she's being horrible at reading the atmosphere, because he doesn't think he could take much more than this toggling of viewpoints without going cross-eyed. How they know each other, what they might know of each other – well, he doesn't want to know. Not right now, at least.

* * *

Moving in together gradually – or at least as gradually as possible when you only have less than half a year, is ridiculously tough. There are still both their apartments to clean out neatly and vacate, though in his case it's more a sprawling suite of rooms in a section of his parents' mansion. Which he won't exactly have to move out of, obviously. Yuzuki does roll her eyes when the small convoy of unmarked vehicles pulls up to the curb to assist with the moving, but obligingly cancels the hired service and fires off a text to the new tenant that she can come over a little earlier like she wanted.

It's not like she has much to bring over, after all, he's seen with his own eyes the utter lack of furnishings and personal belongings she has in that flat. Her door is ajar, motes of dust swirling in the streak of sunlight allowed entry into her flat. Hirotaka steps up to the threshold cautiously, not sure if he should still toe off his shoes, when she turns and sees his framed in the doorway, one hand resting by his side.

Instead of packing, it's clear that the majority of the morning had been spent scrubbing the floors down, dressed as she is in their high school gym shirt and old basketball shorts, hair messily pulled back in a ponytail. Yuzuki squints at him for a long moment like he's a trick of the light before actually inviting him in.

"Hey," he offers, awkwardly stuffing his hands into his pockets so he doesn't do anything stupid like try to shake hers, because that might make things even more awkward, even though he kind of wants to hold her hand and he thinks she could possibly be amenable to that suggestion, should he make it. "I'd offer to help scrub your floors, but it seems you've already done a really good job. Um. Sorry I couldn't come over sooner."

She smiles lopsidedly, an easy little half-lift of the corner of her mouth (but perhaps that's just him, perhaps other people would call it a smirk) – it brings him briefly back to being fifteen again. "Not a problem. Ryousuke-nii's busy today, but he stayed late last night to help pack."

He flicks his eyes up to scan the four corners of the living room, then tilts his head to the side and says, "But you don't have much," in a bewildered manner.

The smile spreads; the corners of her eyes crinkle a little. "Work stuff," she practically sings, "there's boxes and boxes of them to make up for that," and leaves it at that. He does too, instead choosing to shift the conversation to the current and future status of their living arrangements, while she regards him coolly over the top of the Pocari can she procured seemingly out of thin air.

Hirotaka notices that in the middle of a rambling lecture on how her morning commute will be negatively affected by the change in address and what he's trying to work out to mitigate that, at which point the words fade from his lips mid-sentence, and he shiftily fidgets with the Pocari can he'd thought to bring, still hidden behind his back.

Yuzuki sees, of course, and wastes no time calling him out on it.

Seeing as he was so thoughtful, she says, she'll most certainly drink his offering; and then offers up a surprise side dish of reciprocity by passing him her own half-finished one, still cold from the refrigerator.

He drinks it well. They both do.

* * *

"You'll be staying with me for now, okay?" he says gently, reaching over to buckle her seatbelt for her as the car smoothly pulls away from the curb. It's exasperating that a basic safety measure like that is something she doesn't even bother with, but at least he gets to feel more like a husband-to-be, doing things like this. "There's plenty of room, so you'll have your own space. Um, as in, you won't have to worry about shar – no, it's too early, I'm sure they won't mention sharing rooms, will they? A-ah, anyhow. You. I-I – we – won't mind. Never mind."

Hirotaka sighs softly, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the car window, though what feels like barely two seconds later he jerks back into sitting upright.

"We're here," he mumbles, trying to glance surreptitiously at her out of the corner of his eyes, until eventually he gives up and turns his aching neck to survey her profile, backlit by the sunlight through the window. "Yuzuki? C'mon."

His hands automatically reach to unfasten her seatbelt and shake her awake; smooth a lock of hair away from her face, tuck it behind her earlobe; features softening instinctively as he takes in the light filtered by the veil of her eyelashes, fluttering as she stirs, the gleam that glances off her rich amber irises, and he smiles.

"Go take a shower to freshen up and then I'll show you around, alright?" he moves his errant hand back down to rest on his thighs, shifting over on the seat to open the car door. Unexpectedly, he's stopped by a hand gripping his sleeve. "Alright, _danna_-_sama_," Yuzuki grins, and reaches over to flick him on the forehead, fast enough so he never actually sees it coming.

He yowls in protest and doubles over immediately, clutching a hand to the rapidly reddening spot. "That hurt!" he whines, fighting the urge to give her a playful shove. "Do that again and I'll make you kiss it better," he sulks, and manages to keep up the pouty act for at least the next hour in his intended's company.

Seo Yuzuki just laughs.

* * *

He is caught rather unawares when she cocks her head at him and poses the question: "What now?"

"Well, I was thinking that perhaps you could start sending out change-of-address cards, senpai," Hirotaka says, kneeling carefully in front of the lacquered tray he's just placed on the low table to pour her a cup of fragrant tea; "how about it? I think at the very least it would help to inform people beforehand – just subtly, of course – so we can avoid more reactions like Sakura-senpai's happening…"

He trails off, lost in thought over everyone else's potential reactions to news of their impending union that the tea nearly spills from the brim. When he looks down, adorably startled at the sight of the near-overflowing teacup, to see her slim fingers daintily holding fast the spout, he hastily puts the teapot down with a clatter. "Ah, sorry," he frets apologetically, glancing contritely up at her faintly bemused visage. "I'll drink a little of it first so it doesn't spill on you."

She watches more intently than she'd meant to as Hirotaka dips his head to slurp daintily off the porcelain rim, eyes lingering sneakily on the barest outline left by his lips as he raises the cup and proffers it to her in turn. Would it be too obvious, she wonders, if she were to rotate the thing in order to drink from the same spot he did? The idea of stealing an indirect kiss is vaguely appealing, and she wonders if this sort of thing is what idiots like Nozaki consider romantic behaviour.

"Thanks, Wa-Hirotaka. I mean, um, yeah, thanks," Yuzuki says, quickly bringing the cup to her mouth and tilting back, quickly noticing that Hirotaka is noticing her drink too. "So, change-of-address cards, you were saying?"

* * *

Hori Masayuki spends his days efficiently getting things done.

It may seem dull and routine to always be repeating the cycle of rising, eating, working and then sleeping, but Hori is truly passionate about his particular line of work. It keeps him on his toes, really, how he can never really be sure what his tomorrows will bring; whether a fresh debutant who needs just a dab of positive news coverage to get people noticing her; a washed-up has-been cracking his skull over how to retreat from the industry with dignity; a scandal-ridden mess hoping for yet another reprieve; he'll welcome them all with the same dry humour and tacit reassurance.

Hours of cross-analysing articles and news spots to assess the scale of the offensive required to overhaul his clients' images does often leave him cross-eyed, but that's nothing compared to the gamut of emotions he'd experienced when a spectre of his past had been ushered into his office what still feels like merely yesterday.

Of course there was no way he could have been surprised, in fact, he wasn't expecting himself to be surprised. Unless they'd been hiding under a rock somewhere in a swampy backwater region, there was no one in this country, it seemed, who hadn't been privy to the biggest media shit storm ever; and in actual fact Hori's colleagues were all rather expecting the knock on their door sooner or later. But when the media's latest high-profile victim, known to all as Yuu, had self-deprecatingly and rather destructively shown herself into his office, Hori found to his chagrin that it was none other than someone he once knew.

The very bane of his high school years – one Kashima Yuu. _Yuu_.

How could he not have made the connection? He beat himself up after wards in the relative privacy of a cramped public toilet stall for not once conclusively linking the surfeit of prince roles, the legions of adoring female fans, alarmingly numerous for one born a woman, and the always immaculately coiffed cobalt locks to one another. In any case, she was nearly beyond help when she first turned to them (dare he say, to him?) for assistance.

Being the incredibly dense creature she was, she'd gone ahead and tried to explain how the 'philandering' and 'Casanova syndrome' had always been a harmless and necessary part of her day to day interactions with women of all ages, and then gone ahead and allowed herself to be wilfully, blatantly misinterpreted (though saying such things in press conferences is rather asking for it). Hori had had to literally push her up against a wall (ooh, look, kabedon) and impress upon her the necessity of _not _speaking without thinking. Ignoring the rapid-fire thundering of his heart as he'd fisted his hands in her collar and leaned into her face had been easy with his anger behind him, but later, alone for the closing of the office, he'd slid down in the middle of the corridor and allowed himself a moment to blush with abandon, hidden in the darkening shadows of the night.

Even then it'd been a relief to see how much better her next foray into the jungle of press interviews had been handled: with _Yuu_ professionally smiling into the cameras and declaring that since anything she said was going to be horribly twisted and quoted out of context anyway, perhaps she should just hold her tongue? The immediate chorus of "No, no, no, no" that had arisen was infinitely amusing to hear, though Hori did think she took the baiting a little too far after that.

It's a relief that Kashima will be leaving the country for a period of time to immerse herself in her latest project, surprisingly not another movie where she can reprise her trademark role of the sincere, princely gentleman, but a return to her very roots – a return to the stage, to the theatre. Despite the years of practice with schooling his features into their everyday set of brisk no-nonsense taskmaster, Hori can't help but look surprised when he discovers the exact route Kashima's going to be using to hide out abroad and evade all the bad press over the next few months or so. "A play," he repeats after her, careful to ensure that he doesn't sound the least bit incredulous, or scathing, or bitter; flicking his eyes up off the stacks of paper on his desk to survey her face. She doesn't say anything.

The blinds of his office are half-drawn today, so the light that filters in is only sufficient to weakly illuminate the side profile of the person sitting across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap. As he watches, she runs a thumb smoothly over her knuckles, over and over again, smiling wanly at him; and he remembers that she of all people _knows_ that _he_ was once an actor too.

"I wish you all the best with your endeavours, then, Yuu-san," he says, almost betrayed by the slight quiver in his voice when he curls his mouth around the too-short syllable of her first name, and feeling way too intimate for his liking.

"The same to you, Hori-san," Kashima replies with a courtly bow of her head. "I'll be going now."

Her well-trained voice is steadier than he likes, and he doesn't dare hope that her sounding choked over the suffix she'd added to his name was a clamping down on the unconscious tendency to say _senpai_, doesn't dare hope that she remembers the him that she adored.

* * *

Hori climbs into his car and shuts the door briskly, rubbing his hands to warm them from their brief exposure to the insidiously penetrating chill. The radiator sputters to life, in tandem with the engine as wisps of heat and care exhaust drift about in the confines of the cabin. He turns the radio dial.

"…_and in other news one of the Matsuyama group's young heirs is reportedly soon to be married. An official announcement was issued collectively by the Wakamatsu family, a very high ranking side branch who have long been deeply invested in the running of…the identity of the bride has yet to be revealed, but rumour has it that it is a former schoolmate of Wakamatsu Hirotaka, the young man soon to be…"_

It's the morning after Kashima has departed from Japan, and it seems life has decided to fling another of his old school acquaintances in his face. They have all lived largely separate lives from graduation up till now – of course all that youthful spouting off about keeping in touch over the decades is complete and utter bullshit, and he knows they all knew it from the start, and made all those empty promises anyway. That's an accepted part of life, after all. Get swept up in the flow of a new campus and new city and new faces and new feelings; forget about the past.

Move on from silly puppy love.

Hori has to settle for labelling them acquaintances because all other words don't feel right. They technically aren't friends any longer, but being once so close means that he's still powerfully attached to the idea of their friendship, and so saying they're 'erstwhile friends' or 'just ex-schoolmates' simply won't cut it. That's right, acquaintances, _acquaintances, _the word coated inside and out with emotion. _How_?

His very distracted mind barely manages to log the usage of _Wakamatsu Hirotaka_, _bride_, and _former schoolmate_ in the same sentence, causing him to momentarily jolt upright before collapsing heavily against the leather backrest with a quiet sigh. Unfortunately, this poor excuse of a senpai will have to admit that he has no guesses as to who the lady could be, since apparently all he ever worried himself about was Kashima, Kashima, nothing but Kashima. The radio plays on in the background, like weak sunlight intermittently filtering through the murky depths of his recollections.

"_Word from as-yet-unverified sources has raised the suggestion that this union is not in fact the result of a business alliance, as many have been saying online. A more romantic spin has been put on things, as it seems that the groom was sent off on a series of blind dates but refused them all in favour of this mystery love…..."_

Hori freezes.

Even more so than when Kashima Yuu was sitting opposite him in his suddenly too-small office, the radio broadcaster's usage of the choice words 'blind dates' immobilizes him; and all he can do is remain there, alone in the driver's seat, and let the unwanted influx of memories forcibly kick down the defences he has so painstakingly erected around his heart.

Blind dates are something he's only seriously tried once, and thereafter seriously sworn off. Nearing your thirties and wanting to settle down soon must be something nearly everyone should be able to empathise with, he feels, so he'd caved to all the well-meaning jibes form co-workers and agreed to meet someone they thought was compatible for some after-work conversation. In any case, it would have helped give him some perspective that would be valuable for handling certain profiles of clients, and who would he be to turn down such an opportunity?

It went better than he'd expected it would. A familiar face, no souring of the expression when the other party registered his height (or lack thereof), no "honestly I'm just here to get laid but you're really not my type I have to go now". Imagine then his (doubtlessly well concealed) surprise when, at the end of what was in his opinion a wonderful night, one Sakura Chiyo had laughed gaily and thanked him for the good time, _as an old friend_.

– A _friend?_ He'd wanted to say as he arched a bemused brow at her countenance, faintly flushed from drink. _And here I'd thought we could be something more_.

He only realised he'd spoken aloud when she actually replied, and then he couldn't bring himself to tell her how slighted he felt over not even being good enough to impress her as a legitimate dating option, that despite all his own private justifications about agreeing to this date it still stung to not be noticed that way – the blinkers of an erstwhile friendship completely blocking her from considering him on merit.

_Merit_.

Another word, yet another word that tastes bitter in his mouth, for reasons he'd rather shut out of his mind.

* * *

The big day of the Wakamatsu wedding dawns at long last.

With everyone milling around the venue either finishing up last minute details or mingling by the comically oversized punch bowl, Hirotaka takes the opportunity to slip away from the entrance for a while, a brief escape from the ceaseless stream of congratulatory smiles and handshakes he's been subjected to for goodness knows how long. The suite of rooms the bride was given for the pre-wedding preparation is some distance away from the wedding hall, and he takes his time striding through the labyrinthine corridors of the hotel they'd picked off the shortlist presented to them, the same way they'd picked the caterer and the florist, the same way they'd dealt with the guest list.

Here, in the relative privacy of near-empty corridors, Hirotaka can breathe a little easier and admit that even though everything's gone much faster than he thought it would, it's also been way smoother than initially anticipated.

The only way he'd be ruined now would be if his bride-to-be decided not to show up at the altar, thereby damning him to the soporific lectures of family elders as well as a great deal of salacious gossip among the assembled guests and press.

Mind already saturated with numerous panic-inducing thoughts, Hirotaka's composure is not ready to withstand the massive knock it takes when no one responds. He raps on the white wood again and again with the back of his hand – his knuckles rubbing raw – and still! There is no answer, and the cold hand of dread clenches his heart in a tight fist. He whirls to dart helpless glances along the length of the corridor, but of course there is no one who can, so he curls his trembling fingers around the cold handle and twists –

Only to be faced with an empty room. Signs of occupation, if not inhabitation, are present everywhere, but a quick and thorough search he makes of the suite reveals no one: neither the bride nor any of her party (and that too gives him pause to ponder, aside from immediate family, who _is_ his wife's party?). He is mere seconds away from quite possibly hyperventilating to death (it _might_ _just_ be a better fate to face than the embarrassing expositions of the society pages) when he hears bare footsteps echoing in the outside corridor, and turns to face the doorway of the suite with a grateful exhalation of breath, in time to see a pair of ivory pumps thrown unceremoniously onto the carefully waxed pale parquet flooring.

Blond wood. He stares hard at it, through the gaps between his fingers, instead of at blonde hair; hugs his body to the wall and shuffles over blindly to the outside of the room and refuses to look at Yuzuki. Hirotaka presumes she is regarding him bemusedly, and he's actually right, only she also looks perplexed, and rather concerned for his sanity.

"Are you alright?" she ventures to ask, not quite reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder, not quite retracting it either.

"No, it's nothing," he mumbles into the wall, tapping his forehead repeatedly on the smooth plaster surface until he's more than a little cross eyed. "Ah, Yuzuki apparently I'm not supposed to look at you before the actual ceremony commences, so could you please go back in already?"

She scoffs lightly. "Okay," she replies, then steps right up to him, so close he can smell the shampoo in her hair and the fragrance of her skin, soaking into his neck cloth; so close he entertains the thought that she is drinking his scent in too. After she shuts the door behind her, he runs careful fingers disbelievingly over the solitary bloom she has tucked into his lapel and smiles like a schoolboy.

It gives him real courage later, when he has to kiss her in front of everyone.

Hirotaka thinks he might very well have lost all feeling in his limbs when he's told he may kiss the bride, and he dimly registers that he still hasn't let go of Yuzuki's hand after sliding the ring on. He curls the fingers of both his hands around hers, pulling her forward to meet him halfway by their linked hands, until his forehead can tilt down and rest on hers.

The hammering of his heart is loud.

She flicks her eyes up to meet his first, an unsteady gaze that then skitters away to glance at the bloom still fastened to his lapel, edges curled brown by now. Her eyes barely land on his lips, instead latching onto his Adam's apple. He swallows and squeezes her hand– and she leans up, tiptoeing unnoticeably beneath the trailing folds of her gown to touch her lips to his. There's a collective intake of breath in the room when he leans down further and slants his head to the side, even though they barely deepen the kiss, even though neither of them opens their mouth, even though they pull apart after the requisite chaste duration of about two seconds.

Say what they will in public or private, the wedding snapshots, once developed, are irrevocable proof that their cheeks are each overspread with a beautiful blush. The residual warmth lingers for hours on end, the kind that calls for the gentle touch of wondering fingers, again and again and again. It's so very poignant and strange.

It rather recalls one of the pre-wedding shoots they had had to participate in, the one themed as a traditional Japanese wedding ceremony. They don't _actually_ sit through the marriage meeting between families, or sit opposite each other on the tatami and take turns sipping from cups of matcha – those are all taken as solo shots, just angled right to make it seem as if the couple are facing other in the photosets that will be released – but they do have to sit under the silk covers of a futon together and pretend to look calmly disinterested while pulling strategically on each other's obi; all because the photographer got it into his head that they might like to have a couple of personal shots to keep and refused to be dissuaded from the notion.

Yuzuki has always been blessed with the most blasé of expressions, and so she faces no serious challenge in complying with the directions of the photographer for this last set of photos. Unfortunately, that is not at all the case for Hirotaka. They eventually give up hope of correcting his perpetual blush, and right on time too, for Yuzuki is already done holding in her laughter and ready to just suggest they scrape the whole idea and walk off set.

"_Let's do it this way, then," _the photographer says, leaning over to pull them into another position. "_The guy lies down and pretends to be asleep, okay, and we'll have the girl awake and leaning over him. Put your head in her lap, maybe?_

_Relax your shoulders – you're too tense – ah! _

_Good, good. That's a nice pose, miss. Lovely touch. Now don't move."_

The shutter had clicked away rapidly, and Hirotaka had focused with all his might on keeping his eyes closed and his features relaxed. It was so much harder than it sounded, because when you close your eyes your face goes all unguarded, and truth be told he couldn't much like the idea of baring his ugly soul unconsciously under her gaze.

* * *

The Wakamatsu wedding is simple but elegant, and rightfully lives up to all the expectations that were raised prior to the actual event, as the newspapers and internet forums duly note. Similarly true to form, Seo nearly blinds someone with the bouquet toss.

That someone is Nozaki Mayu, and the _nearly_ is only because Mikoshiba Mikoto had the sense to try and bat the projectile out of its single-minded trajectory towards Mayu's marble-carved face (not that the likely victim was making _any_ effort at all to avoid the oncoming missile). He'd had good intentions and pretty good aim, but unfortunately Mikoshiba had tripped in his haste, and so ended up falling ungracefully against, firstly, Mayu's chest, and secondly towards the floor; all messy tangle of limbs and mussed red hair and startled red cheeks, clutching the bouquet of red roses close.

Being resignedly braced for the hard impact of landing, he'd been extremely unprepared for nearby Sakura to deftly catch him in her arms and keep him there a few seconds, practically dipped at the waist. Instead of the ceiling and light fixtures and far-off streamers and slowly-descending stray petals from the flower arrangements, he'd been enveloped in pleasant warmth and the light flowery fragrance of his high school years, pressed up close and face to face with vermillion hair and violet eyes.

She'd said, "Are you alright, Mikorin? Mayu-kun too?" and he'd desperately shoved the flowers into her hands so he could place his own on her delicate shoulders and haul himself upright.

Red, red, red everywhere he wasn't meant to be seeing it.

The post-wedding reception is kept afloat until the early hours of the next morning on a veritable sea of quality champagne and the entire guest list's desire to get as drunk as possible. Sakura Chiyo sits on one of the many abandoned high stools littering the rim of the hotel bar, unwilling to follow the mass exodus to the dance floor and upper echelons of the establishment, and surveys her surroundings through glazed violet orbs, lashes of lead weighing her entire head down. She can't really tell by looking at the sky because she's indoors, but she estimates from the delicate sort of background stillness in the air that it should be about three in the morning.

What in god's green earth is she _doing_? Trying to get as drunk as possible at three in the morning the day after the wedding of two high school acquaintances – friends? – Classmates? No, only Yuzuki was a classmate – this is giving her a headache. It's as cliché a situation as they come, so what should happen next? The smooth-talking, handsome cad should be making his scheduled appearance any moment now…

…or maybe he won't.

She's distracted from her inner turmoil when she catches sight of a lanky figure draped across one of the plush couches that line the walls of the bar. Walking over slowly brings her near enough to convince her that the reclining form is that of Nozaki Mayu, otherwise known as the younger-brother-of-the-biggest-unrequited-love-of-her-pathetic-little-life. Chiyo's mind is working sluggishly, and her mouth still feels pleasantly layered from the alcohol she's imbibed. Which is good, because she really can't stand it when it feels like her mouth's been scrubbed down with camel piss and garnished with rotten eggs, the way it does after enough time has been whiled away in this goddamn stupor.

Floating around in a liminal state isn't very good. She opens her (still not gross!) mouth to speak and pull herself back firmly into reality. She totally forgets his name for a second, though.

"Mayu-kun, Mayu-kun, Mayu Mayu Mayu-kun," she mumbles, "Hey, are you asleep?"

"…"

"Then–

Can I say somethin' lame like 'sleep with me'? Hmm? Mayuuuuuu-kuuunnnnnn."

Dark eyes suddenly hold her gaze; and acting on instinct, she freezes up. The anticipation is killing her; Mayu really should just make quick work of this. He doesn't even have to haul his lazy ass off the sofa; all he has to do is contort a couple of facial muscles. Surely that isn't so hard? Though she supposes she can understand if the sea of sake shots and rounds of beer pong have taken their toll on the heap of human lying at her feet.

Chiyo comprehends that he looks like he's waiting for her to do something, so she cocks her head to the side and grins sloppily. "Well?"

Mayu looks at her for a long, long minute, and then sort of smiles. "Oh, what is this," he half-shrugs, half-snorts as he realises he has to consider her proposition seriously even though he would much rather not. "Maybe it's just that I attract redheads," he mutters to himself, making a stab at levity (and hoping, in a vaguely desperate sense, that she will get what exactly he's trying to imply happened, and that it might make her reconsider).

The hysterical laughter that bubbles up from his companion in the wake of that statement isn't quite exactly the ideal response he had in mind, but it'll have to do given the circumstances.

* * *

Some twenty floors above, the newlywed Wakamatsu couple tumble into the lush feather bed of the honeymoon suite. Being forced to smile for the cameras for hours on end is an arduous, unenviable task for any normal person, but even _Yuzuki_ is worn down by the sheer drudgery of the whole shebang. They hadn't had time to eat at the pre-wedding reception, the actual ceremony, or the after party, or the interview sessions. One measly glass of champagne at the toast-making par to the proceedings was worth close to nothing, as far as they were concerned. When finally allowed to excuse themselves from the wedding hall, they'd both reached for the room service menu in unison form where they'd been lying sprawled on the smooth tiling of the room's entryway.

Having eaten her fill, Yuzuki had immediately proceeded to collapse in a boneless heap on the bed and begin snoring softly without further ado. Hirotaka sits at the table and stares at her place settings, before deciding to follow his wife's suit and dispense with taking a shower – he is too tired to even want to think of moving an inch. Ambling over to the bedside, he carefully sinks down onto the mattress at her side and detaches all the pins from her mussed hair, the ones she only half-heartedly tried to pull out before succumbing to sleep.

For each bobby pin removed, one wavy lock falls briefly over his fingers.

Hirotaka lays them neatly out on top of the dresser drawer, next to his keys and wallet, where he actually keeps a copy of that wedding shoot print he swore he didn't want a copy of – the one where he is asleep, and she leaning over him, one hand slipped beneath the folds of his kimono to caress the burning skin stretched over the firm thundering of his heart.

.

.

.

_cont._


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n:** yodelling into the distance because im an unemployed mess dear google how do i get my shit together? just yeet me off this earth pls

**disclaimer:** i do not own GSNK. this fan work is transformative and was created solely for non-profit entertainment purposes. thank you.

* * *

The months fly past and they get along fairly well, well enough that no one says anything.

Hirotaka goes to visit her at work, taking nervous strides through the cool corridors of the fine arts school where she conducts vocal training for a wide variety of entertainment industry hopefuls. It's funny, how he wouldn't have thought to find her in this line of work. Being exceptionally bad at something hardly puts one in a position to help others improve their craft, does it? But that's just one of the things he hasn't yet puzzled out. His footsteps echo through the seemingly deserted building—it's the end of another day, and the sun is sinking slowly in the western sky, stretching a film of smudged reddish-oranges and yellows over the cityscape.

As he nears the practice room that also functions as his wife's office, he can't help but wonder whether she thinks of him at all during the day. Surely she must, because being married to someone rather ensures that they will be on your mind most of the time, and so he supposes that the real question is: in what way does his wife think of him?

He'd texted her earlier in the day to ask if his presence for the drive home would be appreciated and received an answer in the affirmative, but he has no idea what to expect, having never ventured so far as to propose something like this before.

It's new, newer than it should be for a married couple halfway to their first anniversary; for by all rights they should still be floating along blissfully in the honeymoon phase. There's a smidgen of regret that accompanies that thought when it surfaces from the bottom of his mind, bridging the gap between what they are and what they could have been.

The walk to the door is almost interminable.

His palms are warm and sweaty against the cool air, bringing him back to the days where he'd felt the same vague unease just from walking among the rows of lockers after practice and knowing she was doing the same.

Busy wiping them dry on his pants, he almost doesn't realise that Yuzuki is not alone in the room.

* * *

The radio is on again, a soft smattering of noise in the background of his messy thoughts as Hori broods quietly on the way to work. The past year has largely been a blur, and he can hardly bear how it makes him feel.

Kashima's temporary exile had meant that she has a lot more time on her hands, but he still hadn't expected to be informed that after so many years of screen stardom, she would finally be returning to the stage. He hadn't wanted to react, had steeled his features against betraying any flicker of wayward emotion; but there had been no helping the double take he did.

The company that's taken her on were being more than generous in offering her a lead role, he'd thought, though he supposed that from their point of view her scandal wasn't much of one at all, merely a fortuitous whim of fate that brought a brilliant thespian to their shores.

They had been more than proactive in liaising with him—proposed collaterals for the play's publicity campaign were sent on to him posthaste for careful vetting but he'd been petty; letting the unopened envelope sit pretty on his desk for weeks before he could bring himself to touch it. Thinking of Kashima all styled and made up and posing in character is enough to raise a flush, dull red creeping up from below his collar, determined not to stop until it stains his cheeks.

Printed as her image had been on glossy sheafs of paper, he could almost pretend that the sparkle in her eyes was real and right in front of him.

The traffic light changes to green, and Hori pulls his focus back onto the road, pressing the clutch and easing the car forward.

It's not like there is cause to worry, he assures himself. As long as he gets his work done, being silly and maudlin for a few moments is absolutely forgivable; his one secret vice.

* * *

Hirotaka peers tentatively through the rectangle of glass, newly on edge.

His view of Yuzuki's face is partially obscured by what seems to be the back of a casually attired but elegant man sporting cobalt locks, and for a moment the corners of Hirotaka's mouth are unconsciously pulled down. Then he leans in to listen to the conversation, thankful that the pair remains too absorbed in their conversation to notice him very unsubtly eavesdropping—and all the nascent jealousy building in his bosom is swept away by the tide of recognition and rose petals that accompany Roman High's eternal Prince.

He rather startles when he hears Yuzuki saying the words _my husband's coming to pick me up, so you can go on ahead_—how the word can fall so naturally from her lips, he would dearly like to know. He hasn't her ease. Inside the room, conversation continues.

"Oh, yeah, I never got to attend your wedding, huh? Seeing as I had that big production coming up, and rehearsals galore under way when it was announced and all."

Kashima twirls a pen between her fingers. "I asked you not to send an invitation, didn't I? Silly of me, really, I only realised that without it I hadn't a clue just who you were getting hitched to." And here she suppresses a snort of some kind.

"You've always been an idiot, Kashima," Yuzuki drawls, flicking some wadded up paper at her. "You could've asked Mikoshiba, I guess. Or Chiyo-chan. Even my brother? They were all invited, you know. And you probably still have their emails."

"Ah, yeah, but I was too busy, too caught up in the practice, the performance. A year _gone_ just like that, by the time I flew back here."

Kashima's voice is tender with fond recollections, but—relieved, perhaps, that no mention of a certain someone was made—when she next opens her mouth it is to steer the conversation in a starkly different direction.

"So, how's it been for you? I mean, no offence, but you're looking a little, uh, under the weather, actually."

Kashima's back is to him, but he can tell by the tone of her voice that she is most definitely frowning. "Is he treating you right? Are you happy? Why'd you get married so suddenly, anyway?"

Yuzuki quirks a half-hearted smile but doesn't reply immediately, and Hirotaka finds that he's holding his breath. The urge to press his face flush against the door is nearly unbearable, and whatever she says right then will definitely go a long way in helping him decide just how he wants to think of her.

A shame that this is how he tailors his behaviour towards her, but an undeniable truth just the same. And who could fault him, when people are all guilty to some degree of doing the same as well—all hanging back, afraid of being hurt. He still feels as though he's done enough wrong from the last time he approached her and set this entire show on the road, but perhaps an overture from her would somehow set things right.

"Well," she begins after a brief pause, "he's _nice_, but this whole marriage thing. I guess you could say it wasn't supposed to happen—_no, you idiot, I didn't get knocked up_—but you know, I—kinda wanted it to happen then. When he asked."

Hirotaka's breath hitches in his throat.

The furrow of her brow is something he'd like to smooth a palm over, the sort that male leads in movies would gently erase with feather-light kisses, while tucking stray hair behind delicate earlobes. He has to settle for holding his gaze on her while hiding behind a door.

"Oh," Kashima says, sounding more and more delightedly sceptical by the minute. "So it was on a whim or something?"

"No, no, not really. More like I just went with the flow, maybe? That's really what it felt like." Yuzuki chuckles shortly—and maybe it's his imagination, but it sounds more than a little disbelieving, and more than a little bittersweet.

"Never imagined you could be the sort to go with someone else's flow, somehow," Kashima muses.

"Ah, yeah, but gimme a break. It's been what, more than ten years since we graduated? Loads of shit has happened since then."

"Uh huh. So do I get to hang around and see him or what? Are you chasing me out of here?"

Yuzuki leans back, head lolling from side to side. "Suit yourself, Kashima. He should be getting here any minute now. 'Cause, you know, he's the punctual sort."

Taking that as his cue, Hirotaka barely remembers to double back down the corridor a short distance before he sucks in a fortifying breath, pushes the door open, and walks in. Kashima turns, registers his unexpectedly familiar face, and blinks owlishly. "_You?_ It's _you_ she's married to."

"Yeah," he bites his lip, suddenly discomfited by the undue amount of emphasis placed on Kashima's words. "Me."

And then all of a sudden Kashima is jumping about and squealing at the top of her lungs that she'd totally seen this coming since all those years ago when they were in school together.

She is so animated, so sincere, in all her manifold congratulatory exclamations, that he can do nothing but accept them with equal sincerity. Anything less than that would have felt like a grave affront, even if Kashima knows nothing about the specifics of their arrangement, even though she has accepted it so readily after seeing his face. Especially when he knows that only minutes before she'd been openly sceptical about this marriage.

He is overwhelmingly touched and embarrassed all at once, and simply hurries Yuzuki down into the car as fast as is polite.

The drive home is uneventful in itself.

With the scenery rolling past in the corners of his eyes, he tries his best to figure out how to convey to his wife that whatever they have between them isn't so contractual in nature anymore, without letting on that he has been eavesdropping.

They pull up in the drive, and he pitches himself out of the vehicle's confines, blurts out her name before she can even pull the seatbelt off and step fully out of the car. He pauses hesitantly a moment, staring at the half-open door and scuffing his soles on the gravel self-consciously. "Yuzuki," he asks, "Can I hug you?"

She squints up at him, shifting on his feet as he stands on the driveway, arms pulled behind his back and biting down on his bottom lip. "Okay," she assents as she unfolds herself from the vehicle's interior. "Sure. C'mere then."

Seeing her impassive face above her open arms makes him falter for a second, and just like that he's too slow to move.

Hirotaka feels her arms curl around his waist and apply brief pressure—not too cold, not too warm—and he finds himself wondering where on earth she learned to hug like that. It's such a far cry from the unrestrained enthusiasm and bone-crushing force of yore, and it really speaks to him that he's only thinking wistfully of what she was for the sake of it.

Honestly, truthfully, Seo Yuzuki as she is now is so much easier to pretend with; so much easier to fall in love with; and yet—there's no shaking the feeling that her carefully measured steps somehow rub him the wrong way. She's already done and stepping away from the perfunctory embrace when he finally remembers himself, remembers to pull his hands apart and reach belatedly for hers even as she cocks a brow at him.

Oh, but she doesn't protest when he wraps her arms back around his waist; in fact, she looks rather amused at his attempts to avoid her eyes, and he hopes she cannot tell how much he wants to smile, _and how much he's trying not to_, under his flaming face. It's a losing battle.

"Thanks," he mutters over her shoulder, as he unconsciously curls further into her arms, a very picture of contentment even as he remains unable to put a finger on the root of his unease.

* * *

On the other side of town, Sakura waits over cup noodles in a convenience store, idly taking bites of her food and glancing restively at the passers-by who fill the street outside.

She hadn't said anything out of the ordinary the last time they'd met at Yuzuki's wedding, but the truth is that the matter of Mikoshiba's past marriage has been bugging her incessantly. She feels just like that servant of Midas in the Greek myth did, she supposes, having to hide the fact that the king had donkey's ears. Though of course Mikorin's secret is nothing so ridiculous as all that; to even think of laughing at the situation makes her feel decidedly sick.

To her, it feels like a secret swelling in her blood, tremendous pressure exerted against the thin walls of her veins, threatening to burst through at any moment—she's legitimately afraid she'll end up blurting it out in the middle of some mundane, everyday conversation, in some entirely wrong context.

Therefore, in order to prevent that, she's asked that Nozaki-kun take some time out of his busy days to meet her for a chat. It was a request he couldn't refuse, really, seeing as he'd missed the last get-together with her and Mikorin.

They were, of course, all at ease with each other then but that was months and months ago, before Yuzuki's wedding.

Before.

She stares out over the building tops, cityscape looming way over her head, streetlights shining dully in the nippy evening air; and then suddenly the tall dark figure she'd been inadvertently searching for arrives, pushing through the door of the tiny store with practiced ease and settling into the seat beside hers with a measured exhale.

"No Mikoshiba today, then?" he asks absently, staring into the inside of his instant noodle cup as it fills with hot water, the steam condensing and rising in cloudy tufts to cover his face. Sakura glances up at his profile, silently wondering how to raise the particular issue that's recently been bogging her down; wryly marvelling at the fact that Nozaki is the best person around for her to unload it on.

After that chance meeting with Yuzuki and Wakamatsu-kun (plus the unexpected revelatory bomb), she's really had to rethink her sustained relationships with high school friends; the ones she always has taken for granted, even though other people can't afford to do so.

She slurps up more of her own instant ramen, nodding in reply to Nozaki's question before she realises that he probably would've missed that; he's eating, and anyway it's not as if he was looking at her, was he?.

"Nope, not today," she affirms between mouthfuls. "Actually, Nozaki-kun, I wanted to talk to you about something."

"What about?" he rumbles softly, the barely present edge of concern in his voice not going unnoticed. His companion appreciates it, she does, though perhaps she wishes he'd take it on himself to start the conversation, just this once; instead of just saying "Go ahead, ask away."

Sakura stalls as well as she can, but eventually breaks, just as she knew she would. "Ah, um, well—say, hypothetically—if one of someone's oldest best friends got married and never told them. How-how are you supposed to feel?"

They warily regard each other in the loaded silence until Nozaki tries to make a show of blinking in casual nonchalance—he's never quite been able to lie to her upfront—and then Sakura just _knows_.

Her voice is hollow, cracked, at the moment of truth. "You…you…knew, Nozaki-kun?"

"I guessed," Nozaki replies quietly, holding his Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea to his lips. "You know that necklace he got to wearing all the time, back then? He got flustered and dropped something on the floor once, and when he was bending over to pick it up the ring he'd strung through it just fell out of his shirt."

"…and," Sakura supplies.

"And I pretended I hadn't seen anything, naturally," Nozaki deadpans, in a tone so painfully reminiscent of their high school selves that Sakura could trick herself into thinking she wanted to cry.

"Anyway," he picks up the thread of conversation again abruptly, "it's not a nice feeling to be kept in the dark. I get that, Sakura. I do. So I'm not going to hide it like Mikoshiba did, I'll tell you." He stares off into the distance, the very picture of her barely a quarter of an hour earlier, and Sakura cranes her neck to follow his line of sight.

"In fact, you'll be the first one apart from my immediate family to know." Nozaki turns to face her fully, a small, rare, genuine smile unfolding on his face as he does so. He meets her eyes, and her breath catches; she's virtually hanging onto his every word at this point.

"Sakura, I'm getting married. Won't you congratulate this old friend of yours?"

"O-of course," she stammers warmly, desperately trying to regulate her breath, but he—she—there are no words for this moment, she can barely remember to breathe. Nozaki turns back to his cup ramen and starts to drain the soup, hints of a contented smile pulling the edges of his mouth up. It doesn't seem like he has anything more to say.

Sakura's about ready to snap when the steady trill of a mobile ringtone punctuates the now very pregnant silence between them. She flicks her eyes about, hoping that nothing seems amiss; fingers clammy on the lit-up display of her phone.

It's from Mikoshiba.

Surely, surely, he won't be leaving her behind as well, Sakura thinks, as she presses the phone to her ear and slips off her stool by the counter, nodding a quick goodbye to Nozaki as she does. Outside, the night air is cool on her skin and she breathes it in deep, relishes the slight burn in her lungs.

"Mikorin," she says lowly, not quite sure how to approach this conversation. They have not spoken much since the wedding or even before that, what with all that lies between them—every time she reaches for the phone she remembers the raw hurt in his eyes when she'd laughed at him for saying he'd been married once, or him ripping himself from her arms her as fast as humanly possible when she'd so thoughtlessly, foolishly, stepped in to keep him on his feet.

"How have you been?"

Mikoshiba is silent on the other end of the line, and then he sighs.

"I've missed you," he mumbles, barely audible over the crackling of his breath against the receiver; over the wild thudding of her heartbeat; but Sakura can hear him loud and clear.

She's been missing him too, after all.

* * *

In the master bedroom, Hirotaka blearily cracks open his eyes. He doesn't want to wake, but there's an uncomfortable knot at the base of his neck that's getting in the way of his sliding back into blissful thoughts of Yuzuki's warmth; her arms around him; palms hot on the skin at his waist; the weight of her fingertips skimming above his belt, edging closer than ever. A sudden jolt and he's falling—and he finds himself stolen from sleep completely, the dream slipping away like sand through cracks, the way his courage does when she looks him in the eyes.

He sighs, and its then that he realises that he's actually back in his bedroom—the one that's supposed to be their bedroom—alone, in the cold white expanse of the daily-changed sheets. That he'd felt more of a connection with her while leaning against her shut study door, backside bruising from the hardwood that lined the hallway floor, than here in their bed says more than words ever could about the dire state of their emotional connection.

Maybe it's both of them, or maybe it's just him being inept. _Of course she wouldn't stay_, he thinks morosely, since this isn't even real, even though they are husband and wife. Relationships are two way things, and he doesn't know how to get her to reciprocate the feelings that he repeatedly fails to demonstrate.

Sometimes he wishes it was back to the old days, where she was still the one chasing, still the one giving; only this time he would have no problem giving back.

Hirotaka rolls over to bury his face in the covers and block the word from view, but reality rears its ugly head—the tenting in his pants is impossible to ignore in this position. He ungracefully shucks off his pants and boxes, not even bothering to fully remove his belt. His movements are brisk, clumsy, and the belt buckle hits the floor with a loud clank that goes unnoticed by him (but unfortunately, not by her)—he curls cold hands over hot flesh, shuffling to his knees to free up more space as he strokes along the shaft, rubs the head of his erection and spreads the pre-cum at the tip around to smoothen the way.

Pressed into the crease of crisp cotton sheets, he can feel the bed frame against his cheekbones through the mattress; the same cheeks that flame hot, then hotter.

It feels as if there is nothing more natural in the world than for him to moan her name as the pumping of his hands intensifies, and he imagines that instead of him touching himself in this awkward position, he's lying on his back and sprawled out on the mattress while Yuzuki goes down on him from the foot of the bed; that she's taking his entire length in that wonderful mouth of hers, sliding it further down to the back of her throat, the friction of her lips and teeth and tongue playing havoc with his heart rate, his self-control.

He comes hard, movements now sluggish from the exertion and the late hour.

Breath escaping in shallow pants, he rolls over on his side, falling asleep before he can register that the light in their shared bathroom has in fact been on the whole time.

His tongue slips the next morning, when they're both bustling around the dining area completing their toilette and pausing to scarf down breakfast in intervals. "Yuzuki?" he asks, trailing her with his eyes as he wrestles with his tie in front of the wall-mounted mirror; he always watches her in the mornings, he realises, and hopes that she is watching him too. "Do you think we'll ever move into the same bedroom?"

She drops her fork, and they both wince at the clatter it makes against the tiled flooring of the hallway in this part of the house.

"Hmm? Why, you want to?" she asks smoothly, and he almost spits out his cereal. "Did your parents mention wanting grandchildren or something?" – and he blinks, momentarily taken aback by the evenness of her voice.

"N-no, I, this is—purely—um, something _I_ want," he manages to stammer in the face of her impressively impassive stare. He can feel his toes curling in embarrassment against the kitchen tile.

"Something you _want_," she repeats, though it doesn't escape his notice that she deliberately shifts the emphasis on the words. His words to her at the start of this whole situation, that one line about her not being the one he wants, ring heavy in his ears.

He yanks too hard on the end of his tie.

Breath momentarily stolen, Hirotaka sneaks a glance at Yuzuki from the corner of his eyes, morbidly fixated on her features as she tries to smile, then tries to laugh, before she gives up both and bolts for the door, knocking her chair over backward in her haste.

There's the muffled slam of their front door being shut, receding footsteps, a sigh.

He gives the knot of his tie a final tug before crossing to the table to right the overturned chair, seat still warm, in front of her plate. He moves it to the sink and scoops the fork from the floor, going back to pluck the half-eaten French toast from the china as he walks out of the dining area. It's still warm.

* * *

Brief estrangement ends when she gets back home unusually late one night, later even than him with all his hours spent in the office. She marches right up to him, and Hirotaka doesn't realise he's holding his breath until both her palms are cupping his cheeks and the feel of her skin on his makes him shudder.

He exhales shakily.

"I've thought this through properly," Yuzuki declares, words only a little slurred at the edges, "and all right, I can't deny that I want to sleep with you, damn it."

Hirotaka can't help it, he really can't, so he laughs. Cups his hands over his mouth and curves the brightest of smiles into them, because even like this, drunk and belligerently passive-aggressive, she touches his heart in a way that exquisitely hurts. For all it's worth, he's always thought she was adorable when she instantly leapt away from the slightest hint of publicly displayed affection. It has, though, been years since the days when they always found themselves stuck somewhere between desperately cordial and reluctantly intimate.

But now, finally, he can softly mould his mouth to hers, pull her closer and onto his lap, run reverent hands over the curves of her breasts, her waist, her hips.

Hirotaka kisses her slow and deep and languid—she tastes a little of the alcohol she's been drinking, he notes, and he breathes in deep; a heady rush. Yuzuki is a warm weight in his lap, and somewhere in the middle of sampling her mouth his hands have wandered further and further south, wanting to slip under her waistband. Her own are already shucking his shirt off, palms cool against his overheated skin.

Coming together for the first time is sloppy and rough and hurts a little in their haste, but it is still beautiful.

* * *

They're sitting together in the living room one evening when Yuzuki gets a call. She takes one look at the caller I.D and visibly winces, hastily picking up before Hirotaka can get any concerned queries in.

"Ah, nii-san," he can hear her say into the phone, "what are you calling for?"

She heaves herself off the sofa and pads towards the hallway, making for the privacy of her own rooms. Hirotaka watches her go from his seat on the sofa, switching his glance to the shaft of sunlight she'd been sprawling in minutes before.

The imprint of her form on the sofa hasn't disappeared yet, and he shiftily leans at an angle to brush his hands over the spot, seeking some remnant of her warmth. It's silly, but any such train of thought is interrupted when his phone rings.

Hirotaka's totally not expecting to receive a call from Ryousuke himself, so shortly after he's supposedly been speaking on the phone with his sister.

"Hey, what's going on?" his brother-in-law demands the moment he answers the call. "Yuzuki's actually crying, and she's the sort that never cries! Okay, not crying out loud or anything, but I could hear it in her voice, you know. What the hell is going on? Is it something you did?"

"Um," is all of Hirotaka's very eloquent reply.

"Well?" Ryousuke prods sharply.

"Um, I actually don't know. That she was crying, I mean. She went out of the room to, uh, take the call. I-I'll go and uh, check on her now. Thanks for letting me know!" And he cuts the call before any more outraged and indignant words can travel down the line to rebuke him further; barrels through the half-shut bathroom door so fast it almost comes off at the hinges.

"Yuzuki," he breathes hoarsely, throat suddenly constricted by emotion. "I—are you alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine." She's startled by the suddenness of his presence, but gathers herself and tries to smile wanly, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he can see right through the poor façade. The tear tracks are still on her face, and she isn't fooling even him with her attempts at normalcy. "Everything's fine, Waka. No need for you to worry."

_No, it's not_, is what he wants to say to her. It's not fine when she refuses to make eye contact with him, or avoids brushing elbows at the breakfast table – it's all these small things he notices, even though he doesn't say anything. The whole situation is made doubly complicated, somehow, by the fact that this probably means it's something he did but has no recourse to finding out exactly what.

Perhaps it is unfortunate that Hirotaka does not think to check the trashcan in the bathroom, where, wadded up tightly at the very bottom, are a handful of crumpled pregnancy test results; or the calendar on her dresser, very conspicuously missing a red mark for this month.

All he can think of is the massive irony that now he wants to keep whatever they have between them together, it seems she's drifting further away — really, he's never felt in greater danger of losing her than right now when he fears it most.

* * *

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. It's just the damn hormones acting up."

"Oh, right. Good. Mum would be glad."

"…sure, _but let me go puke_…"

That's more like the kind of conversation Ryousuke expects from his sister.

* * *

Miyako Yukari calls, out of the blue.

This is not something Ryousuke expects. She asks if he is planning to attend their college reunion dinner, of all things, and he wonders if she forgot so quickly that he hasn't been attending these last two years—it makes him angry and sad and he's just about to hang up on her with a curt little goodbye when it occurs to him that maybe, just maybe, she hasn't been attending too.

It won't hurt his sorry little heart to listen to her talk, will it?

Ryousuke leans back in his seat as Miyako-san waxes eloquent on recent developments in the manga industry and how exciting she still finds it all even though it's been a while since she left the scene. His fingers idly pick at the old newspaper his colleagues have flipped onto his desk.

Manga, he thinks, soothed into distraction by the cadence of her voice. Hadn't there been some sort of big annual press conference cum fan signing event the previous year? Flipping the paper open gives him nothing, so he turns to his computer. A quick search shows him what he's looking for, and he draws closer to the desk to skim through it.

It's a happy, optimistic essay of a piece accompanied by numerous pictures of dimple-cheeked fans and authors. Miyako-san wouldn't have looked out of place there herself, smiling behind a table next to—if his eyes do not deceive him—that Nozaki-san who knows his little sister, the very same one he'd met over lunch some months ago.

The camera has captured him in half-profile, turning to sneak a glance at the fellow author seated just down from him; and she's looking at him too, the corners of her lips pulled up in a smile; eyes dancing with mirth and full of secrets.

Gazing upon this scene, with Miyako's voice still ringing in his ears, Ryousuke has an epiphany of sorts.

* * *

Hirotaka doesn't frequent cheap bars often enough to feel comfortable in them, but to Nozaki-senpai this sort of establishment is clearly familiar turf, and so he simply sits quietly and sips his drink.

Being too absorbed in people-watching makes Nozaki completely oblivious to the stares he himself is receiving, at least until Hirotaka finally calls his attention to them by means of a mildly desperate elbow in the ribs and a few hushed words. He supposes they do make quite a striking pair, especially sitting for so long without female companionship as they have been—but files that away for later and quickly remedies the situation.

"Wakamatsu, move that hand you've got on the table a little. Ah—yes, that's it, into the light." He adds, on seeing the uncomprehending glance sent his way, that "this way they'll not be able to pretend they can't see your ring."

Hirotaka blushes at the mention of it, but deliberately flexes his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. The band winks at him, gleaming even in the low light, and the intensity of the gazes being drilled into his back somewhat diminish. He sighs in relief, flicking his eyes around the room.

Just then someone calls his name and a shock of tousled red hair catches his eye, reflected in the single grubby window pane that's situated on the wall above a rusting tip jar, two half-dead potted plants and the litter bed of an ancient cat. Mikoshiba moves towards them with feline grace, casually pushing his damp hair off his forehead, and greets them with a nod as he slides into his seat.

Hirotaka cannot help but think that he looks as though he's just gotten a huge weight off his chest, what with the way he's carrying himself. The smile in his eyes is also telling, and even though Mikoshiba's lips are pursed it is patently obvious that he has good news to share. When Nozaki directs a questioning look his way, the redhead simply tilts his head to the right and shrugs, silly smile on his lips again; they leave it at that.

It does not escape Hirotaka's notice that Nozaki reads rather more into that gesture than he does.

But it is not his place to pry.

* * *

Mikoshiba Mikoto and Kashima Yuu are, contrary to popular belief, very good at keeping each other's secrets. Not that there were many people in the world who knew that Kashima's schedule permitted her to return to Japan for a week after the play she'd been a part of had finished its run, and she'd pleaded for just a little break before jumping into an exhilarating round of post-production interview circuits.

Seeing each other in the flesh again had felt so surreal, they'd both reached out and clasped hands for a long moment, fingers locking tight with emotion.

A passer-by had remarked that watching twins reunite was always _so touching_ and that had made them laugh, pick their things up and weave away into the chaos of the arrival hall.

They'd proceeded to spend the next week quietly sticking close, glad to have a decade-old familiarity back beside them—others might have grown out of it or felt it turn new and alien, but not them, oh no. Knowing almost everything about each other is all well and good, but Mikoshiba hadn't asked any questions when Kashima disappeared one evening before she was due to fly off. Fair, considering that she had never grilled him on the events that transpired at the Wakamatsu wedding, no matter how much he could see that she was itching to at any given moment.

Still, Mikoshiba does wonder what she'd been up to on her own.

Perhaps he ought to try weaselling it out of her when she returns for good, because as comfortable as they are after a decade, it's still a little strange that Kashima takes such great pains not to ever mention certain people in conversation that he keenly feels their absence.

* * *

Hirotaka never quite believed what people said about imagining things into existence, until it happens to him one day and he can't find a way to explain the words away or take them back.

In the confines of his mind he has been repeating them for a while, the words _don't leave me_. Whenever they float to the forefront of his thoughts he shoves them away with an anxious flush; a clearing of his throat.

Until the day his tongue finally slips in a moment of distraction and they fly right out of his mouth. It's one where he's gone to visit her at work again, and just as he shuts the door of her office and turns to face her, too.

So of course she looks over and asks him to repeat whatever it is he just said, making it the best (or worst) possible timing.

No taking it back, he supposes.

Yuzuki's looking at him with a face full of expectation, and he remembers that she's never been one for beating around the bush. He takes a breath for courage and hopes that she will like what she's about to hear.

"Now that I love you," he says haltingly, "don't leave me."

Eyes blown wide, she lets out a strangled sort of half-laugh.

He pats her awkwardly on the back.

"Don't leave you, you say," she murmurs, twirling a strand of her hair around her fingers.

Even through the process of getting attached to him and accustomed to a daily routine together, the exact weight of the commitment she was shouldering hadn't sunk in until her monthly blood failed to start running and instead of excitement and anticipation all she felt was cold fear at the prospect of being even more inextricably tied to him.

She thinks it silly, this fear, when she's more than liked him for so long, but that doesn't make it any less legitimate—it would be only right to fear a world where they'll look at their children and think not about the joy of building a family together but all the chances at leaving that they lost. How to get that across is more the mystery now.

She jumps a little when Hirotaka swallows the lump in his throat and steps closer, putting his frame within arm's length.

It isn't exactly too close for comfort.

His larger hand is warm and comforting on hers, thumb brushing gently over the back of her hand until her knuckles unclench and her fist relaxes, fingers unfurling into his palm to map them. The calluses on his fingertips come from years of playing basketball; the little bumps and scars on his forearms from years of being knocked around by her in high school; and the staccato flutter of his pulse what he gets from being close to her now.

They sit side by side awhile, nodding off into the cool night.

When they stagger out to the car half-asleep and he tucks her into her seat, large hands splayed protectively over her hips. Yuzuki knits her fingers through his when he pulls back from fussing over her, and it makes his heart warm. Then she leans in and whispers in his ear, and that makes his heart burst.

The drive back to their home from her workplace is quick enough, if a little dangerous because Hirotaka's eyes keep sliding close behind the wheel—it's just as well that the roads are relatively empty at this hour, only the occasional cruising cab or delivery motorcycle passes them.

Yuzuki lays back on the passenger seat next to him, lolling limply against the constraints of the seatbelt, the waxy yellow of the street lamps and the changing hues of the traffic lights playing over her face. It's only after he pulls into the driveway and stumbles out into the cold air that he realises he'll have to carry her in.

As he leans over her sleeping form to undo the seatbelt buckle, then heft her gently into his tired arms, the full weight of how much he's taken for granted settles on him. The last time—the first, and up till now only, time—he'd carried his wife in his arms was the day of their wedding, over the threshold of their newly shared house.

The weight of her in his arms is a familiar ghost, but so much else has changed between then and now.

Then, he'd gingerly gathered her into his arms, cheeks blooming with colour, and she'd smirked as he tried to hold her close enough for appearance's sake, but not too close. _Man_, she'd said to him, partly in jest, _you're so eager to drop me. Don't tell me I'm that heavy?_ He'd flushed even harder. _You know it's not like that_, he'd replied.

And it had been a little strained after that, because holding her so close physically only served to remind them both that she was nowhere near being important in his heart.

The transition from new bride to expectant mother is unexpectedly heavy on the heart, something he doesn't particularly want to explore. Such a big leap since he last held her in his arms, since he last slipped careful hands around her, cradled her close, smiled fondly down at her when she nuzzled into his chest.

Hirotaka swears loudly when he almost drops her while trying to turn the damned doorknob. Having to manoeuvre his way in without jostling her or pulling a muscle isn't easy, and the resulting strain takes a lot out of him by the time she's safely in bed.

The thought of removing to his own bed is very unwelcome.

So he curls up on the other side of the bed, tucks himself under the covers and watches Yuzuki's chest slowly rise and fall in the dark, holding onto her hand as he drifts off to sleep.

.

.

.

_cont._


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n:** also going to jail for abuse of the em dash goodbye

p.s. this fic saw me through university wow! that's how it took me to finish!

**disclaimer:** i do not own GSNK. this fan work is transformative and was created solely for non-profit entertainment purposes. thank you.

* * *

The way Yuzuki's belly starts to curve is a source of endless fascination. Hirotaka floats through his days at work, constantly bubbling over with the urge to grab someone and tell them just _how_ fascinating he finds the progression of his wife's pregnancy.

It makes him dizzy whenever he thinks of life that's growing in her womb. "I helped to make it," he murmurs to himself over and over again. "Me. We."

Just barely under his breath, a wistful sigh. "_Oh_, _Yuzuki_."

Office water cooler talk soon becomes centred on Wakamatsu-san being so excited about his first child that he can barely contain his happiness. The sentiments this inspires in his colleagues can be neatly divided into two camps, despite the statistical unlikeliness of the phenomenon: those who applaud his expressions of joy and those who decry them.

Still, they can all agree on one thing, because it is clear as day.

No matter what happens, this child will be loved.

* * *

Hori fights the urge, but still ends up taking the train to see Kashima at the airport. It is a miserable journey there and he feels ridiculous for it, standing sardine-packed with a horde of fellow countrymen on their own individual after-work, pre-work, on-the-way-to-drink-or-have-an-affair journeys.

The sweat that soaks his blazer through makes him shift uncomfortably, but that is nothing. For someone of his stature, the worst thing to endure is being at the same height as another commuter's festering armpits, given that all of them in the carriage are secreting equal amounts of sweat. _If Kashima were here_, he thinks, _she'd be a proper refuge_. She could tuck him close and ruffle his hair as he buried his nose into her subtly perfumed chest, all while he continued to pretend to fight his way out of her headlock.

Interacting with Kashima without the security cushion of his anger is a very alien concept. Without it there to back him up, the dynamics of their relationship are so changed that he doesn't know how to navigate them without courting disaster. In fact, it's so hard for him to accept that he had dreams about that last terrible conversation they shared, the kind that leave him in cold sweats for hours after; insides writhing with the discomfort, with the bareness, of it all. Focusing on the low chatter of other people's conversations makes him feel better for a while. He didn't manage to get a spot in one of the quiet cars today, and decides not to bother with headphones.

They don't do a good enough job of cancelling noise anyway, and Kashima evidently has fans everywhere because he's hearing her name again. He's ticked off all over again, wondering why it is that wherever he goes he must be plagued with mentions of her whether sly, innocent, kind or otherwise.

Hori shuts his eyes and thinks about what to say.

First of all, in what capacity is he going to see her? As the director of her current public relations campaign? As a fan? As an old friend? He knows that if she sees his face in the crowd, he won't be just another member of the public to her, but there's no telling what kind of reaction his surprise visit will precipitate.

Rather than wait out front in the arrival hall with the mass of _Yuu's_ fans, Hori chooses to stake out the much more covert and well-guarded VIP exit. He's allowed in, because airport security recognises him from his association with previous clients, so of course they'd assume he was here on a purely professional basis.

So that's the story he's going to stick with, and he remains determined to stick with it. Right up until the moment when Kashima steps out of the entryway and they lock eyes and it's like no one else exists in the world—that's when Hori Masayuki knows, in his gut, that he can still make this work if he wants to.

And he does want to.

"Kashima," he says, internally wincing at his forever gruff tone of voice. "Welcome back."

He doesn't have to say the rest out loud for Kashima to know exactly what he means to convey. The bond between them is a strange one—the way she's always responded to him is not a pretence at obliviousness, but underneath all that natural idiocy she's always had an intrinsic understanding of what makes him tick as a person, so now—well, it's enough to say that he knows what he's here for.

"Hori-senpai!" she exclaims, megawatt smile lighting up her face as she bounds over to take him in her arms. He presses his face to the crook of her shoulder and just breathes for a long minute, arms locked tight around her waist in a breathlessly honest embrace.

Kashima chuckles, nuzzling her face against his own neck, her whispered reply burning over his skin; now flushed to the tips of his ears:

"I'm really so glad to be back."

* * *

Fans of Yaguchi and Yumeno-sensei, a.k.a the fairytale made real _manga-ka_ couple, go crazy in the online forums when news of the wedding breaks. The whirlwind romance is cooed over repeatedly, and one of the venue staff at the wedding must have been a fan, because grainy snaps of the event emerge soon after and begin making the rounds online to various, but uniformly vocal, exclamations of delight.

There's even a brief deluge of teenage hoo-ha when the identity of Nozaki-san's younger sister is revealed on SNS as one of the bridesmaids, after certain behind-the-scenes pictures leaked online.

Ken-san is simultaneously delighted and terrified of the astronomical increase in public scrutiny. Hell, if he'd known that a believable love line was all it took to hook audiences wholesale, he'd have done it long ago. But while good for business, the attention does have some drawbacks: namely, the likelihood of "Yumeno" and "Yaguchi's" little switch-around being found out.

As a concerned manager of his artistes, he sends them so many cautionary guidelines and warning texts about public statements and appearances, etc. etc., that Umetarou comes up with a list, laminates it, and sticks it on the fridge.

In large, plain lettering, three commandments as follows:

Ken-san is truly the best

If you give fans an inch, they will demand a mile. DO NOT MENTION BABIES

"Yaguchi" is now the pet name that I, Nozaki Umetarou, will use to address my wife affectionately (P.S. Ken-san is still the best, but he does not need to know this)

* * *

Mikoshiba and Sakura very nonchalantly make plans to meet at the same cafe where things (read: The Seo And Wakamatsu Debacle Which Somehow Got Everyone Else Involved) first unravelled.

It would be an understatement to say that conversation is stilted, for there is no conversation at all being made. Sakura scrabbles desperately through her brain's store of information, trying to prompt herself into saying something, anything. Bubble tea, she thinks. She would have liked something more substantial to go on, of course, but those are the most persistent words flung forward. She tries for a surreptitious glance at the cafe menu on her phone search — the last time they'd been here, too much else had happened for her to pay any material attention to the menu.

She turns to Mikoshiba, mouth flying open almost desperately, and freezes at the sight of his tiny, fixed smile. He's making that face which means _I'm going to keep telling myself this silence is very comfortable because if I open my mouth now I'll say something stupid and regret it and I don't want to do that, especially not in public or in front of you._ So she leaves it alone for now. It wouldn't do to embarrass themselves in public, especially when what she wants to ask him about sounds it was ripped right out of a shoujo manga.

They buy coffee in silence, and drag their feet out to the carpark in even more pronounced silence. Sakura takes her seat in Mikoshiba's car, the milk and sugar heavy on her tongue. She swallows a nervous breath as he slides into the seat next to her and fixes his seatbelt, casually checking her over as he does.

As they drive to his apartment, she wonders what it would be like to kiss him later, what he would taste like under the milk and sugar; wonders if the taste will have soured on her tongue.

* * *

Cleaning an apartment isn't a task best suited to one person, so Sakura is all right with this. If Mikoshiba hadn't called her over for this, she'd still have been stuck doing chores. Her little brother Towa has yet to complete moving into his college dormitory, and has been begging for her help all week.

She doesn't quite understand why. Between the two of them, he's the more social creature by far, and surely he'd have a bunch of friends from school more than willing to chip in? Perhaps he only wanted her there as token comfort, a final reminder of the home they both used to live in. These are the thoughts that flit through her mind as she finishes wiping the window grilles down.

The rag grows warm and limp in her hand as she dunks, soaks, and wrings it out again, and again, and again. The grilles are already clean.

She runs the rag over them again anyway, working every last particle of dust out of the thin grooves in the metal frame. Mikorin is wrestling with the curtain rod a few paces away, muttering to himself whenever the fabric of his nice new curtains (the ones he took an hour to pick out in the store) snags on the divots lining the pole.

Sakura leaves him to grapple with a particularly stubborn section, padding over softly into the next room to get started on dusting. She's just checking off the list of cleaning chores they made when the phone vibrates insistently in her hand, shaking the attached charms with a vengeance. She accepts the call and the screen takes a moment to flicker into life, sectioning the three-way video call into neat little boxes.

"Nee-san, you're not at home?" Towa's voice is crackly with static from the long-distance connection, but even so, the sly edge in his tone is evident.

Sakura scowls at him, shaking the fist clenched around the duster at him. Her parents, lined faces crowded into one small square with the family cat, smile fondly at the sight.

"Ah, I'm helping Mikorin spring clean his house," she says into the phone, tucking it against the book spines with one hand as she tiptoes, trying to reach the top of the shelf with the other. "Yes, just an old friend from high school…I think you've met him?…but it's been so long, of course, maybe you don't remember…"

She runs the feather duster along the wood, determined to tackle all the dust up there even if she can't see what, if any, progress she's making. She's still sneezing from the resultant shower of dust when something cold and hard bounces off her skull and promptly gets tangled in her hair.

"Ow! Hold on, let me just get this out," she sniffs, setting the duster down and reaching back to comb her ponytail out. The object that is stuck in there is easily dislodged once she separates the now-loose strands, and her hands dart out to catch it as it falls.

It's more of a panicky aborted flail than anything, and the object—the ring—ends up dropping nicely onto her finger. She heaves a sigh of relief and straightens up carefully, only to see Mikoshiba staring open-mouthed at the jewellery on her hand.

"Um," Sakura says, not feeling very eloquent at the moment. "I found thi-it. I found it while dusting. Here, let me just—"

She's in the middle of trying to return the ring when Mikoshiba cuts her off.

"It suits you," he says. Then he blushes so fiercely that the room feels two degrees warmer. "I-I-I-I mean! That, um. I, ah. Well, it _does_."

His voice rises to a near scream of panic before fading into a whisper, when he forces out the last few words. Because Mikoshiba Mikoto, fool that he is, really does think that his old wedding ring looks absolutely perfect on Sakura Chiyo's tiny hand, even a few sizes too big and speckled with neglect.

That said, the atmosphere in the room feels like quicksand at the moment. Feeling himself begin to sink into the mire of awkwardness, Mikoshiba takes a deep breath and summons all the collective courage he's ever wielded while taking on dating games, of both the 2-D and 3-D sort.

He has to act fast, he knows, he has to be swift and decisive to secure the heroine's heart. The part of him that inspired Mamiko's creation pulses in solidarity with the rest of his mind, body and soul, as he moves across the room to seize Sakura's hands in his own.

"You know, I never thought I would want to be married again," Mikoshiba says, cheeks pinking with the full intensity of their former youth. "But if this is a sign from," and here he gestures wildly, "I don't know, the heavens or something that we're meant to be together, my answer is yes."

"Mikorin," Sakura says—and that's all she can say, or, all that she needs to.

"Chiyo-chan," Mikoshiba says—and that's all he can say, or, all that he wants to.

Then he leans forward and kisses her full on the mouth (still flushing red, as always, but this time forgoing the panicked flail, the flower-background posturing, all of that) and, well.

It is a good kiss.

* * *

Ryousuke feels a little foolish.

He's dressed sharply today, hair neatly combed back and aftershave spritzed on over pressed shirt and trousers. His belt matches his shoes. He's even bothered with a jacket and tie, which he's draped over his joined hands to hide the jitters. It's more effort than he normally puts in for work, and everyone in the office picks up on it immediately, ricocheting sly glances off the cubicle walls.

But he forgets all that when his sister shows up the moment he gets off work. His little sister takes one look at him frozen in his cubicle seat, indecision written all over his face, and shakes her head.

"You're hopeless," Seo Yuzuki says, clicking her tongue in a tone that passes for fond, coming from her.

And then she grabs him by the elbow the next thing he knows she's pulling him along down the street, and he can just tell his colleagues are waving encouragement at him through the glass doors until they leave his line of sight. It is rather touching, he supposes. Though Yuzuki does set a very punishing pace, and her grip is wrinkling his shirt and _oh my god his heart is acting up again because what if his outfit doesn't match Miyako-san's and wait he's totally overthinking this because it isn't even a date, damn it._

"Where are we going?" he asks (or rather, pants) when Yuzuki finally slows to a normal walking speed.

"Department store. Kid's section."

"What?"

"Don't what me, I need practice being around brats. Before I pop out my own, y'know?"

"Ah."

The blast of air conditioning that hits him in the face is very welcome, even if her reasoning is a mystery to him. Yuzuki drags him through the aisles at random, stopping every five seconds or so to ask if he would like a stuffed toy—_something he can squeeze to give him strength_, she almost chirps—and refuses to take no for an answer. She shoves toy after toy into his hands, replacing them with each eyebrow twitch or nose wrinkle he responds with, and that's when it hits him: that she wants to help him work off his nerves, in her own way.

That, and she's dead serious about the stuffed toy thing. Serious enough to pay close attention to how he responds to different plushies, no matter how dumbfounded or unchanging his expression remains.

Ryousuke subtly checks the time after she's pressed about fifty consecutive toys into his arms, then grabs the smallest piece of fluff he can find and hauls Yuzuki over to the cashier. He'll gladly accept his little sister's gesture of encouragement, but there's no way on earth he's going to show up to meet Miyako-san late, or visibly holding a stuffed toy for moral support. He chose a small one that he could tuck away in his briefcase without really looking, but on closer inspection, it's actually kind of cute.

Who knows, maybe he can convince Yuzuki to accept it for the baby.

Eventually.

* * *

Neither he nor Miyako-san have moved since they noticed each other lurking around the entrance, staring at the large printed sign that's half fallen off the restaurant door. _**Welcome to XXX College XX Department X Class's Reunion Dinner!**_ it screams in giant technicolour lettering, as if trying to make up for their lack of enthusiasm.

Ryousuke darts another look at her and forcibly surpasses a whimper. The distance between two streetlights never seemed so vast to him as it does now. Why is it so hard, he thinks desperately, plucking at his sweat-dampened collar. After all, she specifically called and invited him to attend this thing. Together. It's not as if they met coincidentally on the street ten years after a torrid love affair and now have bad blood to work around—

"Do you want to hold hands and go in?" he blurts out.

The screaming in his head intensifies, immediately, when Miyako-san just stands there and blinks at him. He's been so out of it, he didn't even notice that she moved to stand so close.

Ryousuke waits for what seems like a small eternity. He recalls the diner that he waited tables for in his college days: the monotony and ease of his shifts, time spent appreciating the brief respite they provided from the cyclone of his little sister's presence. No matter how hectic things got, the warm aromas from the kitchen were always a comfort to him when he retreated to the back near tears, especially after seeing Miyako-san with that younger man.

He'd go home afterwards, dejected, and fall flat onto his bed without bothering to fix dinner. The hours on the job infuse his uniform with a mix of stale grease from the kitchen and trapped perfume from the staff locker rooms. Back then, he'd lived near enough to his workplace that he didn't have to take the train home. Usually he would cycle, but on days when he was feeling particularly down, he walked.

On those days, lifting his feet was a chore that kept his mind occupied. He keeps the black canvas sneakers he purchased when he first started part-timing at the back of the shoe cabinet, the rubber yellowed with age and slightly cracked. There's a stain on them, from the tray of drinks he dropped when he first saw Miyako-san leaning in over a table with Nozaki-kun and his heart immediately seized, surprising even himself.

Ryousuke hadn't thought he liked her quite that much before then. His fixation on her seemed like a passing fancy for a bored college boy; a mere longing for the idea of a sweet campus romance. It was alarming to know that he wasn't as disinterested as he told himself to be.

Not that it should have _surprised_ him, given that in her presence he'd acted like the most oblivious mooncalf in the history of ever. No, the biggest surprise should have been that Miyako Yukari was just as, if not even more, oblivious than him.

But perhaps they are both just slow learners when it comes to love.

Miyako-san unclenches her hands from the straps of her bag and reaches out. He takes them slowly, fitting his palm to hers in degrees. It feels good, almost like courage, to have her warm, dry hands against his slightly clammy ones. He takes a deep breath.

"Yukari-san, I—"

"Let's go in, Ryousuke-san," she says, gentle smile already in place.

She releases one hand from his grasp, lacing the fingers of the other tightly into his, and tugs him towards the entrance.

This place, he decides, will be his favourite restaurant from now on.

* * *

Mayu, having been strong-armed into finally attending a goukon by some of his colleagues, suppresses an irate sigh as he sinks into his seat. _Just think of it as networking_, they say, _if you don't want to date_, but that rather misses the point.

The point is that he has better things to do, like catch up with news on the high school's judo championships, considering that he goes back to his alma mater now and then to coach new students and check in on older ones. Or scroll through that fascinating forum thread he found on conspiracy theories surrounding his nii-san's wedding—people really do spin the strangest yarns, though the betting pool on whether the respective authors haven't _actually_ been lying about which titles they publish all along deserves to be kept an eye on.

Lazily flicking one eye around the room, Mayu sinks a little further in his seat.

At a long table across the way there's some sort of class reunion going on, complete with awkwardly enthusiastic drinking games and tacky banner on the wall above them (it's off centre), flapping with every gust of wind as the door swings open or closed.

He excuses himself in the middle of some frivolous discussion to go the washroom, almost striding across the floorboards in his eagerness to depart. How uncharacteristic of him, he thinks. The Mayu of the past would have sat there and endured silently the whole time, withdrawing into some abstraction of the real world where he remained safe and indifferent and undisturbed.

The path from his group's table to the washroom takes him past the bunch having a class reunion, and it doesn't take too much energy for him quickly scan all the faces he sees there. The city is big, he knows, but there's always a chance that he will meet some friend or acquaintance who might be willing to bail him out of an undesirable social situation. Usually he would text Mikoto-san, but the man is busy these days.

Mayu is in luck today: there's a couple who know him. Or, well, one of them is his former neighbour and the other some sort of acquaintance twice-removed, which in his book is good enough. In fact, he's pretty sure at least one of them was at that wedding where Mikoto-san fell onto him and Sakura-san while trying to catch some flowers. Miyako-san, he is sure, has definitely recognised him as a former neighbour of hers, but has made no move to come over and save his suffering soul.

Maybe he's too impassive for his own good, as most people he meets invariably say to him. Or, he considers, Miyako-san is simply oblivious, not to mention a little distracted. He takes a moment to place the man next to her. Yes, it's Seo-san's older brother, whom he'd seen at her wedding—the man's eyes are just as swollen tonight, only this time from laughter instead of tears.

He can also see that neither of them will be any help.

So Nozaki Mayu very deliberately flicks his glance back to the only other person of interest he's spotted: a woman reading a judo article; only to see, on her slightly angled phone screen, his own face glaring back at him. His facial expression doesn't budge at all, so as not to give his table-mates any ideas, especially the lady who's been sending him very hopeful looks. He can draw other faces over hers in his mind, of course, but that is only a temporary solution.

Now, if only this dratted thing would just end. By the time he retakes his seat, he just wants to lie down, but the sake he's had is coursing through his bloodstream with a very insistent warmth, pushing him to work it off. So, Mayu realises, he has to lie down and do something…well, something…active.

There are only so many activities you can do lying down, by yourself. He tries to count the ways. Push ups or sit ups would defeat the entire purpose of lying down, so those are out. Planking is torture, so that's also out. The one he's most used to is judo holds, of course, but he would feel very silly doing those by himself.

Perhaps with a partner? Then again, if a drunk person came up to him and asked if he wanted to come over and grapple on the floor, he wouldn't think of judo. He'd think of sex.

Which he might consider, except Mayu has already determined on principle that nobody at this blasted goukon, male or female, is going to have the pleasure of getting into his pants. They've already ruined his evening, so he supposes he can just go home and lie on his futon until the urge to _move_ passes.

He sighs and settles back in his seat, resigning himself to people-watching. At least the sake is good.

As both parties in the restaurant rise to leave at the end of the night, all rosily flushed with drink, Miyako-san and Seo-kun finally spot Mayu and barrel over, inadvertently knocking judo-article-reader into his path. His steady hands find a place on her arms as he rights them both and turns to receive the enthusiastic greetings of his, well, friends.

It's all _how lovely to see you_ and _we noticed the call for help but we were kind of in need of rescue too_ and _aren't we being a little rude, dear?_ The new couple decide not to treat that last endearment as a slip of the tongue, given that something more pressing is at hand. "This is my—our?—our friend," they stammer in tandem, flushed from drink and each other's company and perhaps a smidgen of embarrassment at not being sober enough to produce a name for said friend.

Mayu takes it all in stride.

"Okay, my friend," he says, removing his hands from the not-quite-stranger's arms and looping one of his about her shoulders as she leans into him. "Where shall we be off to?"

They march off into the glittering night.

When he wakes the next morning feeling sated, and not as though everything is a nuisance, he allows himself the exertion of one large smile.

* * *

_She watches her older brother's stiff back as he disappears into the crowd, craning her neck until he moves completely out of sight. She hopes he'll be happy, of course, but he's always preferred to wallow instead of getting out there and seizing things by the scruff of the collar. She remembers when they were younger and Ryousuke had to take a drunk classmate home, only he told the story such that it was obvious he thought of the girl as more than just a classmate, and how after that absolutely nothing happened apart from him sighing and sulking a little more than usual._

Yuzuki sighs and slides her eyes shut. When she opens them again, Hirotaka is directly in her line of sight.

He picks his way through the evening crowd with ease, putting her arm through his as he turns and falls into step beside her. Today's after-work agenda is shopping for baby supplies, so off they go.

In a very amusing throwback to their younger days, every article of baby clothing he blindly reaches for turns out to be pink. It makes her want to tease him. He blushes each time it happens and tries to surreptitiously put them back, but she won't have that. Every single piece of pink he picks up goes right into her basket.

When her dear husband starts to fret, she reassures him that there is no cause to worry.

After all, this child will be _theirs_.

There is no possible way, Yuzuki declares to him very seriously, that the baby could possibly look bad with either their genes or their fashion sense (Hirotaka would beg to differ on the latter point, but wisely cedes it for the moment). They are good looking people from good looking families. And, okay, even if any child of theirs doesn't have a sense of fashion, there are such things as personal stylists (and the budget-friendly option, turn to the internet for help).

It's a ridiculous statement, but Hirotaka feels that he can be assured.

And indeed, time proves his lovely wife right.

The baby, when it is born, looks very good—a healthy little boy.

His mother is smugly pleased, and his father more bashfully so, about the fact that he looks even better in pink.

.

.

.

_fin._


End file.
